


Of Growth and Decay

by Opium_du_Peuple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Development, Enemies to Lovers, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hades & Persephone au, Hades!Montparnasse, Jehanparnasse week, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Other, Persephone!Jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8289778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opium_du_Peuple/pseuds/Opium_du_Peuple
Summary: Thénardier won't listen to reason. After Eponine fled his grip and the Underworld, the God of Chaos is set on revenge. Determined to declare war against Olympus, he rallies Montparnasse, the King of the Dead, to his cause. More worried about his reputation than Thénardier's, Montparnasse accepts to capture Jehan, the Flower deity, and to bind them to the Underworld.Thing is, Jehan is not exactly the meek little creature Montparnasse imagined them to be.





	1. Equinox

**Author's Note:**

> Oh wow! This fic is a LONG time coming! It's already written, so I'll be publishing this over the course of the week, so you guys won't have to wait for long! Before you start, just a quick run through of the local pantheon we have here:
> 
> Jehan - Persephone  
> Montparnasse - Hades  
> Thénardier - Erebos, God of Chaos and Darkness  
> Gavroche - Hermes  
> Claquesous - Montparnasse's counsellor  
> Babet, Gueulemer & Brujon - The Erinyes, infernal deities  
> Eponine - Atë, Goddess of delusion, infatuation, blind folly, recklessness, and ruin
> 
> For a list of les Amis' pantheon, see the end notes. Also please forget all family ties from the original Greek Mythology, because it would make things awkward REAL FAST. 
> 
> Have a good read! ♥

Montparnasse reclined further into the silk of the couch. His elbow was sinking into the fabric, his hand holding his head in place. He had longed for an uneventful day, one he could have spent lounging at his leisure and living his immortality to the hilt by doing precisely nothing. Instead, he was forced to listen to Thénardier's incessant whining. Yet again.

"This affront shall not remain unpunished!" Thénardier was saying, pacing throughout the room. "My name is tainted by her insolence! I'll be the laughing stock of all Olympus if you don't right this wrong!"

From across the room, Claquesous' eyes flicked towards Montparnasse. The King of the Dead had the greatest difficulty to hide his smirk. Both were thinking the same thing: Thénardier had no need of Eponine to be the laughing stock of Olympus. Blinded by his rage, the litigant didn't notice the amusement floating in the air.

"We?" Montparnasse said, trying to conceal the mockery rolling off his tongue. "It is you who did not manage to tame your daughter, not I."

Eponine had always been a wild one, Montparnasse liked that about her. It had only been a matter of time until the day she broke free from the Underworld and her parents' grip. Of course, Thénardier had taken offence the second she had gone missing, scandalmongering throughout the Realm of the Dead. As much as Montparnasse liked Eponine, he wished the Thénardiers washed their dirty linen in private, rather than seeking redress on his doorstep.

"This outrage tarnishes your reputation as much as it tarnishes mine!" Thénardier exclaimed, brandishing his index towards his King.

Unimpressed, Montparnasse cocked an eyebrow. He was glad he had not made this audience public, onlookers would have been bored to death, if they had not been dead already.

"How so?"

"We are allies, you and I. A king who does not defend his ally's honour is a weak king. Our reputations are tied, whether you want it or not."

The realisation hit Montparnasse so hard it knocked the air out of his lungs. Yet another reason he was glad he had not made the audience public. Losing face to Thénardier was already humiliating enough, no need to make it a spectacle. Montparnasse quitted his lounged position, sitting properly on the couch. He tried to ignore Thénardier's sickening victorious smile. Very well. He had the King's undivided attention. Montparnasse had little care for his ally's reputation. It was his own that occupied his thoughts.

"I'm the King of the Dead," he said, his voice suddenly deep and earnest. "Mortals will fear me no matter what. My kingdom is their final destination, for all of them. They'd be fools to provoke my anger."

"Would they fear someone who's afraid to act? Who is so weak he won't even blink when his honour is dragged through the mud?"

Thénardier had hit bullseye. Montparnasse felt his pride burning under his skin, leaving an acrid taste in his throat. He wouldn't swallow it, never. A quick glance at Claquesous confirmed the seriousness of the situation. He washed the bitter taste poisoning his mouth with wine.

"What are suggesting?" he asked, his jaw clenched.

Surely, the price for Eponine's desertion wouldn't be a simple apology. Thénardier had always been greedy. There was a glint twinkling in his eyes, the knowing look of someone who had already thought everything through. Montparnasse didn't like where this was going.

"Capture one of them," Thénardier said calmly, perhaps the first thing he hadn't yelled since the beginning of the audience. "One of theirs for one of ours."

"Your anger has driven you insane!"

It was Claquesous who had spoken. He was no longer reclined against the wall, watching the scene silently, morphing into the wall behind him like a chameleon. Montparnasse too had risen. Thénardier's price was too high!

"Your daughter wasn't abducted!" Montparnasse growled. "She chose her own fate!"

"What you're suggesting is an act of war!" Claquesous added. "Olympus will never forgive the treason!"

Tension filled the air. Claquesous was right. Holding a god captive in the Underworld would have serious consequences. A war of epic proportions. Montparnasse could seal the Gates of the Underworld, but they would be outcast, all of them.

"Olympus has been laughing at us for too long!" Thénardier retaliated. "Will you sacrifice your pride or finally stand up for your kingdom?"

Montparnasse clenched his fists. Thénardier was a god of his own right, he forgot about it too easily. The gods had put him under his authority, but he was hardly be contained. The darkness sowed the seeds of discord, clouded one's judgment. Montparnasse was aware of it, and yet he could not help but think about his reputation. The ruler of the Underworld, held on a tight leash, doing Olympus' bidding, presenting the other cheek when hit. The thought was unbearable.

"Gods aren't easy to trap," Montparnasse remarked coolly. "Who do you have in mind, exactly?"

Who would it be? The god of Chaos had come armed with a plan well thought through. If Montparnasse pricked up his ear, he could almost hear the faint nagging of Thénardier's wife, adding her poison to her husband's. He imagine himself facing Bahorel, the god of War, who could break a bull apart with his bare hands. No, it wouldn't be him. Thénardier would have selected a much more obvious prey.

"A little meek thing, barely more dangerous than a newborn. It will be no trouble at all. They say even the wind bruises their skin."

Montparnasse considered the offer and sat down again. Being on the cusp of war with Olympus was not a charming prospect. War was an exhausting business, and if the King of the Dead liked one thing, it was idleness. But the idea of an easy prey lightened the burden. At least he would get the job done quickly and appease the Thénardiers' spirits. He swayed the cup of wine as he turned around his thoughts. If he captured one of theirs, the gods wouldn't be able to enter the Underworld to retrieve them. Their reprisal would be indirect. They would nag him incessantly. Montparnasse imagined their proud Enjolras begging. Now, that was a concept he could get behind. He took another mouthful of wine.

"Who?"

"The Flower Deity."

The image of a daisy bloomed in Montparnasse's mind. Delicate. Fragile. From across the room, he could see Thénardier was thinking the same thing. He had never met the deity in person, he rarely kept up with the affairs of Olympus and their bright inhabitants. A dryad or another, what difference would it make?

"Very well. I will think about it. You can leave now," he said.

"Think? What is there to think about, didn't you―" the god of Chaos started arguing vehemently.

"I _said_ ," Montparnasse repeated sharply, "I will think about it. I am your King, do not forget your place."

There was something malevolent on Thénardier's face when he made a overly courteous bow, spreading his arm wide to salute his king. Biding him to Tartarus had been the right choice, Montparnasse congratulated himself for it every passing day. Who knew what would happen if chaos was allowed to roam the earth freely. Thénardier vanished in a cloud of smoke, leaving the King and his counsellor alone. Relieved of his presence, Montparnasse let out a ragged sigh. So much for the uneventful day he had longed for.

"What do you reckon?" he asked Claquesous, pinching the bridge of his nose.

If gods could have headaches, he would probably suffer from the mightiest of migraines.

"I hate to say it, but he's right," his consellor admitted. "You need to assert your authority. This isn't an umpteenth family feud. Thénardier demands a tangible retribution this time. Robbing him of it would weaken you."

"Sometimes I wish I could lock him and his wife up in their precious Tartarus for the rest of eternity. You would have made a much better god of Chaos and Darkness, my friend."

There was a subtle change on Claquesous' expression, who always kept his face as impassible as a blank mask, except in his King's company. Montparnasse had rarely seen him lose control of himself like he did earlier, but he could easily understand, considering who had provoked his outbreak.

"Find whatever you can about that Flower deity," Montparnasse ordered. "I don't want any surprises when I go up to collect them."

Claquesous took his leave with a quick bow of his head. Finally, silence returned to the realm. A deadly silence, as there ought to be in the Underworld. Exhausted, Montparnasse made for his chambers, his fingers gliding on the black marble walls. Dealing with Thénardier was a draining endeavour. A year or two of sleep wouldn't suffice to make up for the weariness. Montparnasse was a god of simple pleasure.

Servants opened the door as he walked into his chambers, bowing their head in the same fashion as Claquesous. Montparnasse barely spared them a glance. His attention was focused on the bed he would soon abandon himself to, the soft caress of silk sheets, the numerous offerings he would gorge himself on. Simple pleasures.

He walked to a pedestal table where two silver pitchers were waiting for him, one full of wine, the other of ambrosia. He lifted the former and poured himself a generous cup. That was the least he deserved. His hand stopped, still holding the pitcher in the air. A ruffle of fabric. A flutter of wings. Montparnasse put the pitcher down and took the other in hand, filling a second cup with ambrosia.

"Your sister has created quite a stir," he said casually.

"Did she? Good for her!"

Sprawled on the bed, Gavroche was busy eating grapes directly from the bunch, his jaw drenched in grape juice. Montparnasse' lips thinned as he saw the droplets trickling into the sheets.

"That's my offerings you're plundering," he pointed out coolly.

"I know," Gavroche smiled brightly, sticking a grape between his teeth before cracking it open loudly.

Montparnasse gave in. One strife was enough for the day, and Gavroche easily outwitted his father. He gave the Messenger of the gods the cup of ambrosia before sitting on an elegant chair by the bed. Gavroche preferred ambrosia to wine. He had tried it once, curious about the drink Montparnasse cherished so much. His youthful face had twisted in disgust and he had never picked it up since.

"I have spent all day in the delightful company of your father," Montparnasse said. "According to him, your sister spat on his honour when she left."

Gavroche threw a grape in the air and caught it effortlessly with his mouth.

"My father spends too much time running after his honour for someone who never had any."

 _A little meek thing, barely more dangerous than a newborn._ There was no honour in capturing a weaker being than yourself. Of course Thénardier wouldn't claim someone who matched Montparnasse's abilities, he wanted it to be a clean and smooth abduction.

"How is she?" Montparnasse asked.

"Happier," Gavroche said after a moment of reflection. "She likes it up there."

"Good."

At least Thénardier's tantrum wouldn't have been for nothing, Montparnasse thought. Eponine was not like her brother. She couldn't navigate between realms, picking and choosing at her leisure. If Olympus was the one she chose, so be it. Gavroche was more volatile. He would come unannounced, accompany the dead on their last journey, stay to steal the King's grapes before putting his winged sandals back on. He was a parasite, but at least his company was tolerable.

"What did my father want?"

It was asked idly, but the young god had the mind of a politician and the words of an orator. Montparnasse knew better than to believe his innocent tone.

"Retribution," he merely answered.

Gavroche's eyes turned towards his host, keeping his ingenuous facade.

"How?"

Montparnasse did not explain further and filled his mouth with wine rather than answers. Gavroche's allegiance had always been a problem, for he had none. He didn't side with gods. Mostly. He was a passer-by, coming and going, never staying anywhere for too long. But as much as he was neutral, Montparnasse was convinced he wouldn't condone the capture of an innocent deity, that's where he drew the line. Thus he kept his mouth shut, and Gavroche's eyes narrowed.

"You won't say," he stated matter-of-factly, his face losing its pretence.

"I won't.''

The cup of ambrosia hit a silver plate with a loud sound.

"No matter what your plans are, I would advise you not to follow them through," Gavroche urged in earnest. "Do not give my father the satisfaction!"

"I'm not doing it for your father."

 

* * *

 

Claquesous' report fitted Thénardier's description; as far as he could tell, the Flower deity was a docile little sprout who matched their creations in beauty and frailty. Montparnasse wouldn't even break a sweat dragging them down to the Underworld. Thus the matter was settled.

The King of the Dead called to him his Erinyes to assist him in his task. They were amongst his most loyal servants. The captive, he explained, would be his to seize, and his alone. He wouldn't go down in History as the god who needed three extra pairs of hand to pluck a daisy. Babet, Gueulemer and Brujon nodded. Their task was one of protection. If a mightier god was to intervene, they would have their King's back. Claquesous was right: what they intended to do was an act of war. If the gods of Olympus couldn't enter the Underworld, they might try to stop them before they crossed the gates.

The brightness stung his eyes. Fresh air filled his lungs. Montparnasse couldn't remember the last time he had gone to the surface. A century ago, perhaps. He didn't mingle with the living much.

There were flowers tickling his ankles. The meadow he was standing in was overrun by them. The trees around him formed a perfect circle, letting in a ring of sunlight. A lone figure was standing in the middle, converging the rays of the sun only to redistribute them evenly amongst all growing things. Their white chiton and copper hair were floating under a soft breeze.

The flowerbed withered and died under Montparnasse's steps. Clueless, their creator kept facing the other way, busy with other small and delicate things. Predator and prey were only a few paces away. Could they run? Could they disappear? Montparnasse knew nymphs could change themselves into trees and rivers to escape threats. He imagined himself chopping down a tree in order to soothe Thénardier's anger.

A gasp reverberated through the meadow. His hand clasped around the deity's arm, Montparnasse tugged them to him. He could see their face now, their soft features tense, their eyes wide with surprise, the petals of their lips parted. They shuffled against his grasp for a second, but it was already too late. It was easier than picking a flower. A ribbon of black mist wound around their jaw, preventing any kind of screaming. Another wave of his hand and Montparnasse bound them to the Underworld. Two elegant black cuffs, one for each wrist, now adorned their fair skin.

The rest was even curiously easier. Their initial struggle aside, there was nothing combative about the Flower deity. They let themself being handled, swaying like a reed under the wind. The journey back to the Underworld was quick and effortless. They don't fight back because they can't, Montparnasse thought. Behind him, the Erinyes kept a vigilant guard, though, ultimately, a needless one.

The march through the palace was victorious. Immensely pleased, Montparnasse kept his face stern and serious for appearances' sake. Who knew trapping divine beings was so simple? The sound of their steps was echoing through the corridors. The Flower deity walked slowly, turning their head around as though to admire the architecture of the palace. Montparnasse didn't force them to go faster. They had all the time in the world now, all eternity, even. The party stopped in front a guarded door. The guards opened it, both of them bowing their heads. Only then was the gag removed from the deity's lips.

"These are to be your chambers," Montparnasse announced, his voice purposefully impersonal. "Food and drinks will be brought shortly."

The deity was made to enter and, without further do, the door slammed behind them. If they had any questions, they were swallowed by the thick wooden panel. The deed was done. How long before Olympus realised their precious daisy was missing? One day? Two?

Montparnasse spent the rest of the day attending to the dead, punishing some and caring for others. It was a garden of his own, a garden of souls he kept in perfect order. When he lounged on his bed afterwards, the King of the Dead smiled to the ceiling, feeling the rewarding warmth of task well executed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It would really brighten my day if you left a comment ;-; As silly as it seems, the way to a writer's heart of the comment section and I would love to hear your thought because this fic is very dear to me. So don't be shy, please? ♥
> 
> Les Amis' Pantheon:
> 
> Enjolras - Apollo  
> Grantaire - Dionysus  
> Combeferre - Athena  
> Courfeyrac - Helios  
> Joly - Asclepius, God of Medicine (healing)  
> Bossuet - Tyche, God of fortune, chance, providence, and fate  
> Cosette - Aphrodite  
> Marius - Alke, God of prowess and courage  
> Feuilly - Hestia  
> Bahorel - Ares


	2. Frost

The next day started uneventfully. Montparnasse went about his daily life, giving orders and instructions, settling newly arrived souls in the afterlife. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Once his duties were fulfilled, he treated himself to a walk through the gardens. The gardens of the Underworld were a peculiar thing. The plants there were nothing like their earthly sisters. They did not benefit from the rays of the sun, nor the rains from the sky. They grew white and spindly, awkward-looking, bearing purple and black fruits. The fruits were harvested and distributed amongst the dead in Asphodel and Elysium. The souls didn't need sustenance per se, but always appreciated food if given.

The gardens were nonetheless a fascinating sight, no matter how many times you walked through them. Montparnasse had designed them as such, working with that the Underworld had given him. No gardener on earth could pride themself on such an achievement. Walking under the dome of a lanky willow tree, Montparnasse stroked its translucent leaves with his thumb, feeling his chest swelling with pride. Yes, quite an feat indeed.

Montparnasse squinted. There was a colourful spot beyond the dome of leaves, clashing with the whites and purples. He frowned. Someone had entered the gardens. Slowly, Montparnasse opened the curtain of branches, the leaves tinkling like little pieces of glass. A few feet ahead, knelt on the ground, was the Flower deity. Dumbstruck, he stared at the slender figure and the fingers that were playing with the almost sterile dust. Montparnasse had not spared them a thought since their capture, burying them in the past like a problem that wasn't his to deal with anymore.

"What are you doing here?" he asked icily.

They reminded him of those unwanted gifts brought home by an overzealous housecat. They didn't answer, or turn their head towards him, for that matter. The lack of respect pricked his skin.

"Your King ought to be greeted and answered to," he pointed out.

"You're not my King," the deity answered matter-of-factly.

The truth of that statement burnt his cheeks. They weren't his subject, in spite of their captivity. They didn't have to obey, to bow or to greet him. The helpless feeling threw Montparnasse off balance, but only for a split second. He wouldn't lose face to a puny dryad.

"How did you get past the guards?"

They shrugged, their fingers drawing shapes into the dirty.

"I just did."

It was a blatant lie. It had to be. Their chambers were guarded at all times and there was no way they could have jumped from the balcony. It was just a matter of finding out who had disobeyed his orders.

"Which one let you out?" Montparnasse asked, his voice full of authority.

"Neither."

"Do not lie to me! You are incapable of fighting. You barely batted your lashes when I took you, you dainty little thing!"

"Do not call me dainty."

Their words were sharper than the edge of a sword. Taken aback by the sudden deepness of their tone, Montparnasse almost took a step back. There was power in their mouth, he understood. Good thing he had gagged them yesterday. Still, their eyes didn't deign to look at him, as though the King was nothing more than a fly buzzing around their shoulders. Montparnasse felt powerless and insignificant, two things he hated above all else. Thénardier had introduced a poisonous flower to his kingdom!

"Who allowed you into my gardens?"

He did not even try to sound pleasant. Not only had his captive escaped their close watch, but they also tried to diminish his authority.

"I did," the poisonous flower said, their mild tone abandoned in favour of something drier. "If you suffer me in your palace, you'll suffer me in your gardens. I am bound to this place, not its king."

The black cuffs were still wrapped around their wrists, their lacy design letting Montparnasse see the skin underneath. He dreamed of yanking them away now. What use was a captive if they spent their time doing as they pleased? Why hadn't they struggled yesterday, if they had that kind of fire? Perhaps their only weapon was their words, and they had been deprived of them.

"I should order you back to your chambers at once for your audacity!"

"Order away, King of the Dead. I will be back in these gardens the next day, and the day after that until I leave the Underworld behind. Save yourself the humiliation. What will your kingdom and the rest of the world say, when they know a _dainty_ little thing like me managed to play you?"

The weight of their words was a slap across Montparnasse's face. He clenched his jaw, glaring at the weed that infested his gardens. Where else would they crawl to? The lake? The throne room? The Fields of Asphodel? Elysium? They remained imperturbable, even after their verbal blow. The King of the Dead was not worth their attention. Overcame with anger, Montparnasse strode away from them.

 

The stench of humiliation was still clinging to him when he reached his chambers. He had rarely been in such a foul mood. As to anger him further, Montparnasse was welcomed by the sight of Gavroche casually sat on a chair, clapping sarcastically.

"Congratulations!" Gavroche announced grimly. "You've caught Olympus' attention!"

Bubbling with rage, Montparnasse walked past him. He had recently learnt that eye contact or lack thereof was a weapon he could use to his advantage. He poured himself a cup of ambrosia to calm his nerves and stared outside.

"Have they sent you here to warn me? Are you doing their bidding now?"

The drink tasted bittersweet in his mouth, tainted by his indignation. His fingers were restless, as though itching to throw the cup at the other end of the room.

"I'm doing what needs to be done!" Gavroche retorted. "You've gone too far! I thought you were going to spoil some crops and be done with it!"

"You think that's how the King of the Dead takes his revenge? By destroying a handful of grain?"

"That's exactly what you're doing!" the god shouted.

Montparnasse frowned, confused. Gavroche was not making any sense! He turned around, meeting a steely stare. It was rare to see the Messenger of the Gods angry. His juvenile face could barely contain his divine wrath.

"What do you mean?"

"The gods have spoken. Musichetta refuses to grow crops until Jehan is returned to Olympus. Courfeyrac will stop shedding his warmth. You have doomed the mortals, all of that because of your damn pride!"

It took him a second to realise whom Gavroche was talking about. Jehan. The weed had a name? Montparnasse had always assumed dryads and other Nature gods were nameless beings, only preoccupied by the wellbeing of their green creations. He wouldn't know. Growth and seedlings were hardly his trade.

"If they yield and apologise to your father, I will consider giving them back."

The bargain was a barren one, and both of them knew it. As if anyone would lower themself to apologise to Thénardier. Perhaps when starvation clouded humanity's judgement, they would consider bowing down to the gods of the Underworld. Until then, the Flower deity was his to keep. Gavroche's lips thinned and his brow creased harder. Whatever sense he had hoped to talk into Montparnasse, his efforts had been vain.

"They're giving you one last chance, Parnasse. Release them now, and it will be the end of it. Keep them, and you will deal with the consequences."

Montparnasse raised his glass to the ultimatum. A hundred more souls per day, dead of famine or cold, were nothing. The gods of Olympus were too kind hearted to keep playing this game for too long.

"To the consequences," he toasted, his voice sharp and clear against the stone.

His glass was not empty that Gavroche had disappeared.

 

* * *

 

Jehan's presence became common place throughout the Underworld. Servants and souls would crane their necks to watched them saunter around the palace. There were whispers about them on every lips : "Look at their rosy cheeks", "I hear the most melodious birds can not compare to their singing", "They're so full of life!". In a few days, the Flower deity had become the only topic of conversation. The dead, rarely having something new to talk about, had welcomed the opportunity to gossip with open arms. Never had the court been so alive, paradoxically.

Just as Montparnasse had predicted, Jehan had not stopped their invasion to the gardens. They were everywhere, from the throne room to the offering daises. He often saw them during public audiences, standing amongst the dead, a glint in their eyes seemingly saying "remove me, if you dare". The taunting was infuriating, but Montparnasse did his best to ignore them and forget up to their existence.

The only places free of their presence were his chambers and the rooms he used for private meetings. Exiled in his own palace, Montparnasse often took refuge there, building a safe haven out of these walls. Gavroche came and went from time to time, bringing news from the surface.

"Humanity has invented another word," he announced one day. "Frost."

Montparnasse, who was lying on a couch, turned a drowsy head towards him.

"Which means?"

"The surface is getting cold. Soon, there will be new words. They've never known anything like this."

Frost. The word was more consonant than vowels. There was something cutting about it. Montparnasse thought of Jehan's soft face in contrast, and realised he couldn't quite make it out. He had a vague idea of it, elfin but smooth features, pinkish lips, their eyes... What colour were their eyes? He had spent so much time avoiding them that he couldn't quite tell. Lost in thought, he started at the sound of Gavroche's high-pitched whistle.

"What?"

"Reflecting on your conscience?"

"Not my conscience, no."

 

* * *

 

Everything is a question of habit. After weeks of foreign invasion, Montparnasse had stopped noticing the oddity of Jehan's presence around the palace. They were part of the furniture now. He was no longer fazed by the lack of bowing and greeting, by their silhouette often seen in the gardens or by the whispers of the court. The flower had taken roots.

They rarely ventured outside of the palace grounds, Montparnasse had realised one day. Asphodel and Elysium had never received their visit, not one that the King knew of, anyway. It was a dash of superiority he fed on. They might have escaped their chambers easily, but there were still parts of the Underworld they couldn't access.

"Don't you know this part of the gardens by heart by now?" Montparnasse asked one day, recognising Jehan's shape between two thin trunks.

He knew exactly where to find them, if he needed to. Jehan always occupied the same spot, exactly where he had found them the first time. Montparnasse sometimes even wondered if they had bothered exploring beyond this little square of dirt. Their knees firmly planted into the soil, the Flower deity didn't look up, as was their habit. A strange feeling of déjà-vu seeped into Montparnasse's bones. Jehan didn't seem to care about the King of the Dead breaking his silence for the first time in weeks. Their hands kept their delicate dance on the dirt, fussing over something he couldn't see.

"What do you even spend your days doing, anyway?" he went on.

The urge to get them to talk was overpowering, like a sort of little game Montparnasse played with himself. What would it take to get them to speak? To look up? Boredom didn't sit well with him. Perhaps he too could indulge in the Underworld's latest entertainment. After all, he was the one who had brought them here in the first place!

"Growing things," a little voice grumbled.

Montparnasse furrowed his brow. The victory was almost too easy. He who had expected haughty silence! Surely their fire had not been smothered in the matter of a few weeks!

"Nonsense," he huffed. "There is nothing you could grow here."

"Oh, really?"

A cascade of red hair flicked back and a triumphant gaze fell on Montparnasse. Everything, from the glimmer in their eyes to the pleased curve of their smiled screamed victory. They shuffled slightly, their back no longer blocking the view. Intrigued, Montparnasse narrowed his eyes.

Poking shyly from the ashes was a sprout, its thin stem adorned by two delicate little leaves. Its healthy green was almost obscenely vibrant amidst the pallid garden. The Underworld and its King had never seen anything like it. His lips parted in bewilderment, Montparnasse stared at the seedling. Where there should have been nothing but a snide comment, there was nothing but stunned silence. They had grown this. Trapped in a sterile, sun forsaken land, they had grown this.

Unconsciously, he stretched out his arm, reaching for the sprout, eager to touch it.

"No!"

The Flower deity shielded their creation with abandon, their body standing in the way. Their eyes were wild with panic and defiance. Taken off guard, Montparnasse's hand hung in the air, his skin a mere inch away from Jehan's face. He could feel warmth radiating from their cheek against his open palm. A little more to the left, and he would be cradling their jaw. They had brown eyes, he noticed. Incredibly deep brown eyes. He had thought them green, echoing the grassy expanses they flourished in. He could not have been more wrong.

Montparnasse withdrew his arm, his usual coldness seeping back into his fingers.

"I was not going to destroy it," he said bitterly.

"You destroy everything you touch."

The memory of the meadow came back to him, along with flowers wilting under the sole of his sandals. In front of him, Jehan kept their defensive bearing, as though Montparnasse was going to shove them out of the way and uproot their precious shoot. Was that what they thought he was? A barbarian? He wasn't one of those Nature gods, always clad in leaves and vines, with no roof over their heads! They could see that, couldn't they? Montparnasse took a step back, feeling his pride aching in his chest. Jehan's shoulders relaxed, though they kept their wary stare fixed on him.

"Rise," the King said solemnly.

It was an order. A direct order. Any other inhabitant of the Underworld would be expected to follow it, but Jehan wasn't any inhabitant. They were bound and free at the same time, in a curious combination of liberties they took and restrictions that were imposed on them. They did not rise.

"I want to show you something."

"Is this a trick?"

Montparnasse was an impulse away from walking back to the palace on his own, fed up with them. But his pride held him back from doing so. He had something to prove first. He was not the barbarian, out of the two of them.

"It is not a trick. I swear on my honour that you will not be harmed."

He almost huffed the last part. What did Jehan care about his honour? He imagined he had little honour in the eyes of a defenseless being he had dragged to the Underworld. But what did they know, apart from their flowers? Jehan looked at him skeptically, but stood up nonetheless.

"I will have to touch you," Montparnasse warned soberly.

The wording was wrong, he felt it instantly. Jehan recoiled away from his grasp, their soft face hardened, revolted.

"No, not that way! I will have to clasp you arm or your shoulder."

"Why?" Jehan asked, visibly unconvinced.

"It is a long walk from here. Immortality doesn't mean we need to waste time walking everywhere."

The Flower deity straightened their back, looking at him with suspicion. Slowly, like a wild creature drawn by curiosity, Jehan took an hesitant step forward.

"My shoulder," they said curtly. "Not my arm."

 _Not the arm you clutched the day you imprisoned me_ , Montparnasse read between the lines. Fair enough. As impersonally as he could, he wrapped his hand around Jehan's shoulder, his thumb brushing over their collarbone. They didn't flinch, even though he had expected them to. Jehan was stoic, waiting for Montparnasse to trick him. But there was no trick.

In an instant, their feet had left the cindery soil of the gardens for the soft and lush grass of Asphodel. Blinded by the light, the Flower deity hid their eyes behind their arm. Montparnasse, on the other hand, had no problem acclimating to the sudden brightness. After all, he was the one who had created it. Letting go of Jehan's shoulder, he looked upon his creation with a satisfied smile. Surely, a barbarian couldn't have made all this!

Slowly, Jehan removed their arm, their eyes struggling against the radiance of Asphodel's sun. Montparnasse knew what they were seeing for the first time: infinite fields of grass and flowers stretching as far as the eye could see, tall and healthy trees, a perpetual blue sky. Asphodel wasn't even his best creation, Elysium held that honour. But flowers, trees, sunlight, those were things the Flower deity would understand.

By his side, Jehan gaped at the landscape, their expression lost in complete awe. Perhaps, for a second, they thought themself back home, but a Nature deity wouldn't be fooled so easily. The sun didn't shine as brightly, and the verdant grassland was nothing more than a meticulously crafted illusion. Jehan was the only flower that truly lived, in the Realm of the Dead.

They stretched out their hand, as though to catch the rays of the sun with their fingers. Montparnasse watched them discreetly, pleased by their bewilderment. Their skin looked different under this light. The usual pale glow of the Underworld made it look soft and smooth, like silk. That of Asphodel added radiance. Jehan lowered their knees to the ground and ran their hands on the grass, inspecting every blade. They took a handful of pebbles from under a close by shrub and studied the irregular shapes.

"You have created all of this," they said, still examining the pebbles.

"I have," Montparnasse said proudly. "Each pebble. Each blade of grass."

Millennia ago, the Underworld had been nothing but a wasteland, a pile of ashes. All that stood there now had come from Montparnasse's hands. All but one little sprout. And yet, the seedling made all the difference. For all its grandeur, an elaborate illusion of life would never matched the power bursting through the little seedling.

"Not so bad for a god who destroys everything he touches, isn't it?" Montparnasse teased with a sharp smile.

Jehan's hand hovered reverently over a wild flower, as though its petals were made of fragile silver. They smiled fondly at it, their fingertips brushing the stem with utmost care. Montparnasse had expected jealousy, a frown, a defeated glance, anything but this. His victory tasted strange on his tongue.

"It is the first time I see a flower I have not bloomed myself," they mused, their adoring gaze fixed on Montparnasse's creation.

Had he been a humble god, Montparnasse would have pointed out that it was only a pale imitation of their work. But Montparnasse wasn't a humble god. Their eyes met his and, for the first time, they understood each other, from creator to creator. There was still the hint of a smile hanging on Jehan's lips. He had never made them smile before. It was a different kind victory altogether, one he hadn't planned. He didn't even know how to gloat about it.

"Why did you do it? Why did you took so much care into creating all of this?" Jehan asked, looking genuinely curious.

Montparnasse didn't know if he preferred curiosity over suspicion. He furrowed his brow.

"I'm the King of the Dead. What sort of king would neglect his own kingdom?"

Jehan averted their eyes. He had spoken too harshly. The words had just flown out of his mouth, heavy with frustration, though he could not even explain it. Their smile disappeared completely and Montparnasse was hit by something he rarely felt: remorse. _You destroy everything you touch_ , their little voice rang in his head. Annoyance struck an even harder blow. Why should he care, what they thought? He didn't. He didn't have to justify himself to them!

"Come," he said, trying to sound as detached as possible. "You have left your sprout for too long."

"I prefer walking," Jehan countered dryly, their eyes staring stubbornly at the grass.

Their disappointed tone hung in the air. The rays of Asphodel's sun felt colder, somehow. Montparnasse stood there, stunned, making out the curve of Jehan's chin through a curtain of red hair, guessing the rest of their features. Catching himself staring, he straightened his back with a huff. In the blink of an eye, the Flower deity and Asphodel were out of sight.

 

He ate with Claquesous that night, the two of them lounged lazily on couches, their manners long forgotten. Paradoxically, the offerings made in Montparnasse's name had become richer and more abundant in spite of the bad harvest. Jehan's capture had rekindled their fear and triggered their generosity. If even the gods weren't safe, who was?

"I have seen the Flower deity walking their way back from Asphodel," Claquesous said matter-of-factly, as though he was merely reporting to his King.

Montparnasse buried himself deeper into his couch.

"I know."

"You've let them in," the other stated.

He didn't sound surprised, but then again, Claquesous rarely did. Montparnasse's silence was his answer.

"Why?"

A deep sigh bounced against the black marble. Montparnasse was asking himself the same question. He was even wondering if he had not been played. Perhaps it had all been Jehan's design all along. No, it was stupid. Surprising eloquence was one thing, but mind games? Nature deities weren't known to be deceiving creatures. Montparnasse stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of his thoughts.

"I don't know."

 

* * *

 

The next time he encountered the Flower deity, Montparnasse heard them first. He had been carefully avoiding Jehan's spot, taking detours not to stumble upon the sprout or its creator, but a faint melody derailed him from his cautious path. In millennia of existence, the gardens of the Underworld had never known a single song. Intrigued, Montparnasse followed the tune, walking away from the path to discover its source. The closer he got, the clearer the song became. The notes lured him near Jehan's part of the gardens. Montparnasse wasn't a fool; the melodious voice did not belong to the Realm of the Dead, of that he was certain.

He stopped before the tall willow tree and its dome of diaphanous leaves. They acted as a protective cocoon, shielding the music away from prying ears. Delicately, Montparnasse parted the veil.

Jehan was standing by the trunk, their eyes closed. The last time he had seen them looking this peaceful, they had been gazing at an undying flower in Asphodel. Their singing was effortless, like they only needed to part their lips for it to happen. The cupola of the willow reverberated the melody to perfection. _I hear the most melodious birds can not compare to their singing_ , he remembered. Who knew court gossips spoke true?

The song ended abruptly in a surprised gasp. The echo was still brushing the leaves when Jehan took a step back and covered their mouth with their hand. A fierce blushing flowered across their cheeks.

"Please, do not stop on my account," Montparnasse said hastily, afraid they would run away.

Beguiled by the siren's song, it took him a moment to come to his senses. Wonderment had seeped under his skin and he found that he could not shake it off. His first instinct would normally have been to hate the feeling, to crave control over himself, but he didn't. He was yearning for more.

"I did not mean to startle you," he said by way of apology.

Jehan avoided his eyes, their flustered face inspiring a smile to Montparnasse's lips. He had never known them to be shy.

"What do you want?" they asked, their voice made somewhat hoarse by the singing.

Silence fell under the dome. What did he want? What could he possibly want from them? Montparnasse blinked, convinced Jehan's song had dulled his senses and addled his mind.

"Your company," he heard himself say. "I would like you to join me at my table. If you are amenable to that."

There was no telling who was the most shocked between the two of them. Jehan looked at him, disbelief painted all over their face, their fluster giving way to stupor. Montparnasse himself had great difficulty to process what he had just suggested.

"What if I don't want to?" Jehan said, furrowing their brow. "You can't make me!"

"I don't think I could make you do anything."

The admission scorched his lips, but Montparnasse knew it to be true. A few paces away, he saw Jehan's body relax a little.

"Will you join me later?"

"I will think about it," the deity mumbled, their fingers fiddling with their braid.

Montparnasse bowed his head slightly and left them to their thoughts, the translucent leaves fluttering behind him.

 

* * *

 

Time did not exist in the Underworld. The passage of time was suspended, nothing aged, yet night and day still existed. It gave the realm a rhythm. Light was dedicated to duties, obligations, tasks to perform. Darkness was dedicated to repose and leisure. It was night when Montparnasse ordered his table to be set. He had thought about where to dine all day long, angry at himself that he cared so much about such a trivial detail. His chambers would have been too personal. Jehan's chambers would have been too invasive. The banquet room would have been too large for two people. He had settled his mind on the private quarters. Funnily enough, the meal was to be served in the same room that had seen Jehan's fate sealed.

He had asked the linen keepers to bring him something casual yet regal, a riddle that had resulted in him wearing a black and golden-threaded chiton held together by golden brooches. The room had been prepared. The table had been laid. All that was missing was Montparnasse's guest.

Minutes passed. Montparnasse stared at the empty couch that faced his. They had never said they would come, after all, merely that they would think about the offer. His fingers drummed against the table. Manners dictated that a host ought to wait for their guest before touching any of the food. Manners, however, didn't say anything about the wine. Deciding it didn't count as food, Montparnasse poured himself a cup. It had not reached his lips that three knocks broke the quiet of the room.

Evidently, Jehan had received the visit of the linen keepers as well. Their white gown looked fresh and clean, contrary to the tunic they usually wore, dirty from all the time spent knelt in the gardens. The split sleeves were so wide that little of Jehan's arms was covered. The fabric simply hung and moved with them, like wings ready to take flight. Even their hair had been done beautifully, though Montparnasse suspected the linen keepers had nothing to do with that.

"You came," he said, barely believing it himself.

"I did."

Montparnasse realised he had stood up, his hand still holding the cup of wine. He tried to pass it as politeness and gestured towards the second couch. Jehan took a seat. As they moved, Montparnasse saw something twinkling in the candlelight. A silver thread that had been woven into their braid.

"You didn't think I would come," Jehan said, taking the cup Montparnasse had poured for them.

"I didn't, no."

He didn't think they would dress up either, but here they were! Montparnasse focused on the table between them, helping himself to some bread, goat cheese and figs.

"But you invited me," Jehan pointed out.

"Considering your opinion of me, refusal wouldn't have been a surprising outcome."

"You invited me _nicely_."

Montparnasse huffed but he couldn't help his smile. All those days of frustration, and politeness was all it took? Nature deities were truly peculiar beings! He did take good note of it, however. Looking at Jehan's side of the table, he noticed that the wide array of food was left untouched. Even their cup had not been emptied.

"You're not eating?"

It was impossible to say if Jehan was blushing―the lighting was too subdued for that―but their posture betrayed their embarrassment.

"I'm sure everything is delicious. I just―I can't eat any of it."

Intrigued, Montparnasse put his plate down. He wasn't aware of Nature deities' food habits, if they had any. Perhaps they just fed of sunlight and quenched their thirst with dew. How dull of a diet.

"How so?"

"I do not belong to the Underworld," Jehan explained, their fingers running along the carved details of their cup. "Eating any of its fruits or drinking any of its wine would bind me to this Realm. Forever. No one could reverse it, not even you."

Montparnasse's eyes fell on the black cuffs gracing their wrists.

"So you have not touched food for a month?"

To Gods, food was a leisure, something to indulge in. Most of them had forgotten that it was also a need, though a secondary one, for none would forgo food long enough to feel the effects of deprivation. They were immortal, but immortality didn't account for weakness and apathy.

Jehan nodded.

"And how are you feeling?"

Montparnasse's concern rang annoyingly genuine to his ears. He wasn't _concerned_. He was _curious_.

"I don't feel any different so far," Jehan said.

"You accepted my invitation even though you knew you wouldn't be able to eat anything," Montparnasse realised out loud. "Why?"

Across the table, he saw Jehan smile softly, the candlelight dancing against their hair.

"Like I said, you invited me nicely. I'm not one to dismiss kindness when it is given freely."

Was that what he had given? Kindness? And he who thought he was only sharing some offerings! Surely, the Flower deity was looking too much into it. Montparnasse held his tongue and drowned his snide remark in wine. It felt strange, to be the only one eating at the table. Jehan had nothing else to do but observe him, and the scrutiny made him somewhat more careful of his manners. Which, of course, he disliked greatly.

"You never asked," Montparnasse said after a moment of silence, "why I took you to the Underworld."

"Brought. You brought me to the Underworld," Jehan corrected.

Montparnasse didn't pick up on it. It was nothing but semantics.

"Aren't you curious?"

"I know why," Jehan said, their tone suddenly earnest. "Thénardier wanted retribution and you gave it to him. I was his prize. I know why I'm here. The real question is: why are you dining with me? That I'm curious about."

The confidence of their words took Montparnasse off guard. Reading them was impossible. One second they would blush and the other they would look straight into your eyes with poise, eloquence spilling out of their mouth. Montparnasse took all his time to chew, stalling to come up with a suitable answer. To his utmost surprise, he opted for the unaltered truth:

"I have tried ignoring and avoiding you, and both of these endeavours have failed. If we are to live side by side, I would perfer to have us tolerating each other on decent terms, if not amicable ones. Who knows how long you'll be staying here."

Jehan raised their cup with an amused smile.

"To decent terms."

They clinked cups.

"To decent terms."

Montparnasse drank. They didn't. Instead, they gracefully let themself fall backwards onto their couch, making themself at ease. Montparnasse watched their fingers glide along the fabric, silk and skin seemingly cut from the same cloth. The Flower deity was easy on the eyes, he would gladly admit that.

"It's strange," they mused, addressing no one in particular.

"What is?"

"It's always silent here. There's no music. Ever."

There was something wistful in their tone. Montparnasse could hear melancholy rolling off their tongue. He sometimes forgot they were his prisoner, after a month of having them around. It was strange, to remember they had no other choice but to stay here, in this land of dead silence.

"Nonsense," he said. "If you listen closely you'll hear Thénardier's wife playing her vocal chords all the way from Tartarus. She elevated yelling to an art form."

For the first time, Jehan laughed in his presence. It wasn't a full body laughter, nothing of the sort. The soft carillon echoed through the room, chiming like silver to Montparnasse's ears.

"Montparnasse?"

His name in their mouth sounded strange, but not unpleasant. Few people called him by name. He was went by his title when spoken to, out of respect. Jehan, he had soon discovered, paid no mind to protocol. _You're not my King_ , he remembered them saying.

"Jehan?"

"Amicable terms?"

Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the intimacy of the candlelight, Montparnasse did not know. All he knew was that he was smiling, though he was glad the Flower deity couldn't see it. He raised his cup for another solitary toast.

"Amicable terms."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably say it at the end of every chapter be cause I know myself, but any thought you can share with me is welcome and I shall cherish your golden heart for a century! Thank you for reading, you beautiful person!  
> You can also say hi at [Just-French-Me-Up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! ♥


	3. Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your nice comments! I didn't have the time to answer them yet but I WILL! And each and every single one really warmed my heart and make it all worth it so please, never stop writing them ♥ I'd be eternally grateful!

Gavroche's visits had become scarce. His duties kept him busy on the surface. There were always travellers to guide and journeys to oversee, especially since the crops wouldn't grow and Earth was getting colder. Not to mention the rampant thievery that had settled amongst the mortals. There was nothing like a bad harvest to bring out the worst in humanity. Unfortunately for Gavroche, it also meant he had to be everywhere at once.

One of his few visits occurred shortly after Montparnasse and Jehan's peace offering. The God had never looked so hectic. He kept giving Montparnasse news from the surface, hoping to get him to yield, but his host's mind was elsewhere.

"You could at least pretend to listen to me!" Gavroche said, throwing a handful of grapes at a very distracted Montparnasse.

Unfazed, the King of the Dead merely blinked at him, brushing the grapes away with a dismissing swing of his wrist.

"Do you have a flute hidden away somewhere?" he asked out of the blue.

Gavroche frowned.

"I don't know. Why?"

"I've been craving music lately," Montparnasse lied. "The palace is more silent than a tomb. It's high time we brighten up these walls."

Gavroche grew from confused to suspicious, his eyes narrowing. In millennia, Montparnasse had never talked about music or given hints of any interest in it. If anything, he scoffed at music in the sole purpose to spite Enjolras. Gavroche's quick wits connected the dots in no time. Relaxing in his chair, the Messenger broke into a mischievous smile.

"Sure. What sort of flute does Jehan want?"

The light tone didn't fool anyone. No matter how much Montparnasse clenched his jaw, there was nothing he could do about the heat burning up his cheeks. Apart, perhaps, passing it as anger:

"Don't be ridiculous!" he scolded. "I don't go around taking requests! Now, do you have a flute or not? Surely you've stolen from Enjolras before, since you steal from me constantly!"

The sly smile hanging on Gavroche's lips didn't wane.

"Fine, fine! Don't shoot the messenger!" he said, getting up from his chair. "I'll see what I can do. I'd hate to see your musical craving unfulfilled."

 

When Montparnasse went back to his chambers a few hours later, a lyre was sitting in his bed. The instrument was remarkable, its golden frame heavy with poise yet light as a feather. The carvings were elaborate and elegant and, as far as he could tell, the strings were of the best quality. Montparnasse had no doubt as to whose lyre he was holding, and a smug smile welcomed the thought. He might have no interest in music, but pestering Enjolras was an excellent pastime.

"The Messenger of the Gods sends his regards," a servant said. "He says you would appreciate this better than a flute."

Oh, he did.

"Inform the deity of Flowers that I wish to see them," Montparnasse said. "You'll find them in the gardens. Tell them I asked nicely."

To be fair, he did ask nicely, but he knew the importance Jehan gave to politeness. The servant made a customary bow and left him alone with the lyre. Enjolras would eat his perfect golden curls if he knew. Montparnasse struck a chord and the instrument gave out a clear, pure sound. Perhaps the very note was nagging Enjolras all the way up to Olympus, taunting him from a land he couldn't reach. Wickedly amused, Montparnasse played all the chords, filling the room with tuneless perfection.

Silence had fallen when Jehan entered Montparnasse's chambers. They were like a flower that had grown from the cracks of the marble floor: out of place, but not unpleasantly so. Judging by the dark smudges on their knees and tunic, they had indeed been found in the gardens. They stayed at the door, as though afraid to step into Montparnasse's space. Receiving them in his chambers, he realised, might have been a bit forward.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, come in. I have something for you."

Clearly, it wasn't what they had been expecting. Their steps were tentative, but Jehan came closer, their eyes exploring the room. They took the bundle of silk Montparnasse was presenting, their fingers unfolding the different layers with care. The first hint of gold flickered in their eyes. Their mouth opened in a silent gasp.

"A token of my good will," Montparnasse explained with a cordial smile.

The last bit of fabric fell on the floor, revealing the lyre in all its exquisite beauty. Jehan's gaze flicked from the instrument to Montparnasse, their face reading awe, confusion and surprise at once. The words they meant to say never made it out of their mouth.

"You mentioned you missed music," Montparnasse continued, a crease growing on his forehead.

For a second, he feared that he had made a fool of himself, that Jehan was going to rebuff his gesture. He knew he shouldn't have! What had gotten into his head? Why should he care―A timid yet sincere smile derailed his train of thought.

"Thank you."

Their fingertips brushed the carvings reverently, as though taking in every curve of the frame.

"Enjolras has one just like that," they mused.

Montparnasse managed his snickering into a smile, but Jehan did not seem to notice. All their attention was focused on the instrument. One of their hands glided along the chords, as though preparing them to be played. A single note danced in the air. Its sisters soon followed, and Jehan sat on a nearby folding stool, their being wholly absorbed in the melody. It was nothing like the discordant tune Montparnasse had played. Their fingers were well practised, shaping a graceful air into existence. They had missed this, Montparnasse could tell.

He stood there, watching them, until Jehan's fingers left the delicate chords.

"Do you want to try it?" they asked.

"No."

His tone was a lash splitting the peaceful atmosphere. Instantly, Jehan's hands tensed around the lyre and Montparnasse cursed his damn mouth. It wasn't the mood he had hoped for.

"I prefer listening over playing," he explained quickly, making an effort to sound softer.

It wasn't a lie, he could hardly enjoy playing an instrument he didn't know how to handle, all the more so for an audience. Dismissing music for millennia had done nothing to improve his skills. Not that Jehan needed to know that. He settled a stool a few feet away from the deity and sat.

"Please, continue," he encouraged.

Jehan's puzzlement grew into relief. It wasn't everyday that the King of the Dead asked for a private performance, they both knew it. They flicked their hair away from their face and took a deep breath. Soon, their fingers became smooth ribbons again, floating over the thin strings, barely touching yet playing them flawlessly. Montparnasse's thoughts drifted and, for the moment of a song, there was nothing else but silken ribbons and gold.

 

* * *

 

If Jehan had taken roots before, they only began to bloom after their first month in the Underworld. They were no longer a curiosity or the centre of gossips, but a resident amongst others. They were often seen in the company of souls, chatting idly with those peculiar courtiers about their past lives and their eternity, or playing dice and checkers with Babet. Even Claquesous, the impassible counsellor of the King, enjoyed their company and being taught a thing or two about music. Montparnasse had seen them once, Claquesous sitting on a stool, his fingers striking the chords of the lyre with more strength than necessary, and Jehan sat behind him, guiding his hands. Perhaps it could have been him drinking in Jehan's knowledge, Montparnasse had thought, before shaking the idea out of his head. No. It was preposterous. Why would he even need to know music, anyway? He had said it themself: the Underworld was a tomb.

But more than souls and gods, Jehan preferred the company of their sprout over anyone else's. They were incredibly predictable in their schedule, for most of their time was spent outside, toiling in dirt and ashes. Montparnasse had never relished that sort of labour. Too exhausting. Too messy. Yet, it never kept him out of the gardens. His strolls had become more frequent lately.

"Is something the matter?" he asked one day as he caught Jehan is a pensive mood.

The Flower deity's eyes were lost in nothingness, their face peaceful though Montparnasse could easily imagine the teeming thoughts buzzing in their mind.

"It seems you were right," Jehan answered slowly. "There is nothing I can grow here."

Montparnasse frowned. The last time he had seen the little green thing, it had been thriving, mocking the rest of the gardens with its health! Not to mention all the restless nurture Jehan provided! The deity guided him to the sprout so that he could see it for himself. The seedling had grown spectacularly, enough not to be considered a seedling anymore. Its stem had thickened and strengthened and its little leaves had grown into thin branches that bore leaves of their own. But it didn't glow with its prior healthy green. The leaves had turned yellow as though sick, looking frail and sad. The sapling was dying.

"There's nothing I can do," Jehan explained, disappointment tainting their voice. "It won't grow any further, and I can't keep it strong."

Montparnasse thought the news would delight him, but he found no pleasure in Jehan's misfortune. All the inadequacy he had felt ceased to matter. If anything, he felt frustrated.

"May I?" he asked, pointing at the sapling.

All he had never grown was immortal, from the tallest tree to the smallest blade of grass. Montparnasse never had to fear for his own creations, because they had never been alive in the first place. The Flower deity dealt with more fragile and ephemeral things.

Jehan bit their lip at the question, their eyes shifting from the sapling to Montparnasse.

"You don't trust me," he realised.

"It's not that," Jehan said sheepishly. "You're the King of the Dead. Life isn't exactly your trade. Even with the best intentions, I'm not certain you could help."

Montparnasse remembered the way Jehan had shielded their little sprout with their body, thinking Montparnasse was going to kill it. He recalled the flowers in the meadow shrivelling under his steps. _You destroy everything you touch_.

"This soil may be foreign to you but it isn't to me. You've seen what I can do with it. Let me try."

What choice did Jehan have, anyway? Their plant would die, whether they let Montparnasse touch it or not. They nodded slowly, stepping away from the then stem now thin trunk. Montparnasse considered the dirt laying at his feet, assessing how much it would soil the fine cloth of his garments. The King bent his knee with resigned a sigh. His fingers hovered over a yellowish leaf, not quite touching them. He could see Jehan's worried gaze piercing through his back, trying to look over his shoulder. The leaf did not fall when he touched it, but it did not heal either. Montparnasse's fingers followed the trunk down to its base and buried a second knee into the cindery ground. Too late to salvage his tunic now.

"Well?" Jehan croaked, their voice heavy with concern.

His attention focused on the roots, Montparnasse did not answer. He could almost feel life pumping through the sapling, like a heart beating. It was a strange and unfamiliar thing. Never before had he been surrounded with life in his own kingdom. Montparnasse brushed his hands over the dirt, his eyes fixed on his clean nails. They too would have to be sacrificed in his endeavour. Before his vanity could stop him, he buried his fingers firmly into the ground. A spark travelled along his arms down to the palm of his hands. Montparnasse could feel the fabric of the Underworld responding to its master's touch.

Slowly, the yellow leaves perked up, their faded colour intensifying into something more vibrant, though not as lively as their initial emerald. It was an illusion of vivacity, not life itself.

A pair of hands joined his own into the soil. Their shoulder almost touching Montparnasse's, Jehan had knelt by his side, their gaze fixed on the sapling. Concentration had tensed their features and hardened their eyes. Heat was radiating from their skin and glowed around Montparnasse. Growth and stillness merged into one and fed the little life of the garden, its leaves thriving and its branches stretching.

By the time they both let go, the sapling was a foot taller. Jehan pulled out their fingers with an infectious smile, their body almost shaking from excitement. Pride welled in Montparnasse's chest, his face beaming in triumph.

"Thank you!" Jehan exclaimed, their dirty fingers stroking the lush leaves.

They looked on the verge of embracing him, but contained themself, their hands milling the air awkwardly before dropping on their cheeks. The ashes drew the outline of their fingers on their skin. They were the farthest thing from dignified, in that moment, and Montparnasse couldn't help but admire their lack of composure. Nature deities paid no mind to their reputation. They were, they grew, they floated to the wind and nothing else mattered. This lighthearted freedom was appealing.

Looking down at his hands, Montparnasse saw nothing but disgraceful dirt under his fingernails, not freedom. Yet, as unkingly as is posture was, he could derive pleasure from it, as though breaking rules he had set for himself.

They stayed by the little tree, their elation settling into a joyous atmosphere. From the corner of his eye, Montparnasse kept stealing glances at the Flower deity, wondering how he had found himself sitting on the dirty, his fingers blackened and his spirits high.

"Why didn't you make flowers immortal?" he asked. "You would have been done, then. You wouldn't have any more flowers to grow, you would have been blissfully idle for the rest of eternity."

That's what he had done, creating everything in one setting to get it over with. No more crafting, no more planning. He couldn't imagine having to do it again and again until the end of times.

"And they wouldn't die," he added. "You wouldn't have to see your creation go to waste."

Next to him, Jehan buried their feet into the cold dirt.

"Then were would be the beauty?" they replied. "Flowers are beautiful exactly because they don't last! You wouldn't enjoy them as much if you knew they would still be exactly the same tomorrow. It makes you cherish the moment."

Montparnasse reflected on that for a minute. As an eternal being, change had never been a concern of his. The Underworld had remained untouched until Jehan's arrival. He was stillness, and Jehan was buzzing with life. Jehan was the wind of change, breezing gently throughout the realm.

"Why are you smiling?" Jehan asked.

"You're strange."

 

* * *

 

After that, Montparnasse's presence in the gardens became as unwavering as Jehan's. As soon as his duties were fulfilled, he would sit by the ever growing tree and resume their conversation where they had left it the day before. He would ask about life on earth, and Jehan would ask about the Underworld. Montparnasse was constantly confused and amazed by how much he appreciated Jehan's company. Nature deities, it seemed, were infinitely less primitive that he had thought.

"Do you really dress with leaves and flowers, or is it simply a myth?" he once asked.

Leaning against a tree trunk, Montparnasse closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no breeze in the Underworld to agitate the foliage, so the only thing to be heard was Jehan's hands taking care of their plant.

"I do," Jehan admitted proudly. "And before you start mocking me―"

"I'm not mocking you!" Montparnasse laughed. "I've not said anything!"

"Your thoughts are terribly loud! You simply dress differently down here than we do on the surface."

Montparnasse had to snort at that, he couldn't help it.

"If you dress at all! I've heard more than one tale involving alluring nymphs bathing in rivers!"

There was a scowling sound and he laughed some more. Who knew he'd have to befriend Jehan in order to irritate them properly? If Jehan had been Gavroche, Montparnasse would have received a handful of pebbles. But Jehan being Jehan, he probably got a glare and a pout, though he couldn't see them with his eyes closed.

"What's wrong with being one with nature? You wouldn't know what it feels like with your fine linens and embroidered vanities."

"A King can hardly go around naked," Montparnasse countered.

"You'd be wrong," Jehan's fluty voice retorted. "Besides, I have a gown made out of red rose petals and vines that would fit you to perfection. I made it myself."

These words conjured a captivating image in Montparnasse's mind. He saw Jehan sauntering in a dense forest, their red grown floating amidst a green ocean of leaves. Their lips were red too, petals of their own.

"I prefer my fine linens and embroidered vanities," he said wryly as he chased the idea away.

He never quite managed to do that. Later, as he was playing dice with Claquesous, his mind was still caught up on the scarlet dash running around the woods.

"Parnasse?"

Montparnasse blinked out of his reverie. Across the table, Claquesous was staring at him with a smug expression. His counsellor would drop his usual expressionless mask when he was away from the court. For once, Montparnasse preferred his usual stony facade.

"What?"

"There is something on your face."

"What is it?"

"A smile."

 

* * *

 

His smile didn't last for long. Montparnasse was to receive Thénardier for a private audience on the following day, and he couldn't think of a more depressing prospect if he tried. Audiences with Thénardier were always bad news. The last time he had seen him, Montparnasse had doomed Earth to frost and famine. What would it be this time? There was only so much damage he could inflict around him.

Thénardier was furious. It was legible all over his face and the fists he had clenched. Bracing himself for the storm, Montparnasse longed for the quietude of the gardens.

"What brings you out of Tartarus?" Montparnasse asked, assuming a neutral tone.

"You do!" Thénardier snarled, pointing an accusing finger at his king. "You are consorting with the enemy! That's all the Underworld talks about!"

Montparnasse's stare hardened. He should have known. He should have known Thénardier would not let this pass. Claquesous cast a glance in his direction from where he was standing, and both understood the other's thoughts. Neither considered Jehan as an enemy, not after all the time they had spent in their company.

"What is your point?"

It was as though Thénardier had been slapped across the face. The cold words did nothing but fuel his outrage.

"You should have them locked up, not going around freely! You look weak and lenient for it! You bring disgrace upon us both!"

Montparnasse felt his fingers tightening on the arms of his chair. Thénardier knew how to push him, where to strike for it to hurt. He had given in to him once, but he wouldn't have Jehan treated poorly to please a fool.

"They're trapped here, it's what you wanted," he said icily. "Now the whole world knows what happens when the god of Chaos is disrespected. What happens to Jehan after that is none of your concern."

"You're too weak to resist the first little doe-eyed dryad who opens their skirts to you, you―"

"ENOUGH!"

His voice echoed through the room and flooded through the palace. Incensed, Montparnasse had stood up from his chair and towered Thénardier from the dais. Even Claquesous had stopped breathing.

"I am your King and you owe me respect! I should have you locked up in Tartarus for your impertinence! The way I treat my captive is not up for your approval! They're more of an equal than you will ever be."

Thénardier thought him weak and dull, but Montparnasse would show him he was sharper than a knife. No one provokes the King of the Dead without suffering consequences.

"Question my leadership one more time and I'll show you what weakness looks like. You're nothing without me. The world fears you only because of me. You were too much of a coward to capture Jehan yourself, and you talk about weakness? Go anywhere near the Flower deity and I'll have you scattered around the realm."

The room had darkened along with his tone. Standing at the foot of the dais, Thénardier was trembling with rage, though ultimately helpless. Crossing a powerful ally such as Montparnasse would be his downfall, the King of the Dead would see to it. All his talk of pride and strength meant nothing anymore.

"Get out of my sight," Montparnasse hissed.

Then, in a sudden change of heart:

"Thénardier, wait."

A direct order from his King. Montparnasse sat down on his silver chair, his back perfectly straight, his lips drawn into a haughty smile.

"Bow before your King."

Authority had never tasted as sweet. Montparnasse relished every second of Thénardier's humiliation, their eyes never breaking contact. He knew the god's rage would burn and fester with time, but it didn't matter in that moment. He would lock Tartarus with a snap of his fingers, if need be.

Thénardier disappeared, leaving a strange feeling of déjà-vu behind. Montparnasse couldn't help but enjoy the exhilaration running through him, fuelled by his outburst. Victory felt better than anything else.

"You would do well not to provoke his anger," Claquesous said, his rigid mask of counsellor on. "He never takes humiliation lightly."

"Neither do I. Just let me have this moment, my friend. I know you wanted this as much as I did."

Claquesous did not deny and a smile cracked his serious facade.

 

* * *

 

"It's absolutely unacceptable!" Jehan said, faking outrage.

For once, it wasn't their tree that occupied their mind, but Montparnasse's. The purple and black fruits growing in the garden were ripe and ready to be harvested. Fascinated, Jehan had immediately asked what they tasted like, a question Montparnasse was at a loss to answer.

"I can't believe you've never tasted any of them! How can you give them away if you don't know what they taste like?"

"I've never had any complaints," Montparnasse shrugged, following their steps.

Those fruits had never been appealing to him. They were an afterthought, something he had designed without even thinking about it. He much preferred his offerings.

"Why don't _you_ taste them?" he teased, though he already knew the answer to that question.

In spite of their lack of sustenance, Jehan did not seem weakened in the slightest. Their cheeks were always healthily rosy and their graceful movements were never sluggish. Perhaps their little burgeon of life was enough to sustain them, or so Montparnasse hoped.

Jehan pressed their fingers around a plump purple fruit that surrendered to their touch instantly, breaking off from its tree. Curious, Jehan inspected the fruit from every angle, no doubt looking for a likeness with something they knew.

"Eat it," they said, waving the purple oval before Montparnasse.

Rolling his eyes, Montparnasse took the fruit. The flesh felt tender under his fingertips, as though he would crush it with the slightest pressure. For a second, he realised how ludicrous the scene looked to an outside eye: the King of the Dead bending to the wishes of the Flower deity. The hell with appearances. Jehan's amused smile was worth biting into a fruit and swallowing his pride. The thought twisted his stomach and parted his lips.

"Well?" Jehan asked, eagerness shining in their eyes.

Montparnasse spit it all out, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Tastes like a rotten apricot."

No sooner had he cleaned his mouth that Jehan was already going around the trees, gathering as many fruits as they could carry. They came back back with their arms full and a wide grin.

"You're enjoying this way more than you should," Montparnasse frowned, though he did take the black shapeless thing he was given.

"I'm enjoying this just the right amount."

The day was spent like many others, Montparnasse sat upon the white grass in Jehan's company. He surprised himself thinking they could keep doing this for the rest of eternity. After all, Jehan strengths didn't seem to wane from their prolonged stay. Where would be the harm in it?

That prospect was still warm within him when he returned to his chambers. The over sweet and potent smell of ambrosia stopped him by the door. Lying on one of the couches was Gavroche.

"It's been a while," Montparnasse commented with a smile.

As much as he hated to admit it, Montparnasse had missed him. Even the flutter of his wings, though he despised those horrendous sandals!

"I've been busy," Gavroche said, taking a long gulp out of his cup. He was drinking like a man stuck in a desert. "How did Jehan like the lyre?"

Montparnasse smirked at that. Everything was going perfectly, now that he was thinking about it: Enjolras was probably enraged, Thénardier had been humiliated and Jehan was soaring at the same rate as their tree. Montparnasse couldn't ask for more.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied, though his smile said it all. "What news from the surface? I assume that's what you came down here for. And to eat my offerings, too."

A plate that had previously been full of figs and cheese laid empty on a table just within Gavroche's reach. Plundering wasn't new to him, though never in those quantities. The Messenger sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. He looked exhausted.

"It's not getting any better, Parnasse. Half of the lands are covered in snow, now."

"Snow?"

"It's worse than frost. They call it the white coat. Picture a white sand storm falling from the sky, but cold. Impossibly cold. All the crops are ruined."

Montparnasse listened, but failed to feel any guilt or remorse, if that was Gavroche's point. Musichetta and Courfeyrac could go back to their duties at any moment, nothing was holding them back. This war was a battle of will, and he intended to win it.

"The offerings are getting scarce, Montparnasse. Food will run out soon and you won't get any offerings either. You have to return Jehan. It's more than a simple feud now. You may as well have triggered the end of times!"

"You're bluffing! All your friends have to do is go back to work. It has nothing to do with me!"

Gavroche almost threw the empty plate at him in his rage.

"It has everything to do with you!" he exclaimed. "Your pride started all of this!"

Though full of anger, his voice was also rang of despair. Montparnasse had never seen him like this.

"If you don't do it for Olympus, do it for Jehan," Gavroche pleaded.

Montparnasse's heart knocked against his chest. Since when had the Flower deity become a stronger argument than his pride? When did he allow this to happen?

"What about them?" he asked coolly

"Can't you see how cruel this is for them? Jehan is your prisoner, Parnasse. You don't give them a choice!"

"They're my guest!" Montparnasse protested.

"Guests can leave whenever they want!"

The atmosphere of the room shifted. It was no longer a universal matter, something Montparnasse hardly cared about. Gavroche's blow hit closer to home. Even the Messenger seemed to realise how personal he had made the issue. His anger gave way to compassion as he raked a hand through his hair, his eyes looking for Montparnasse's.

"I know you have grown fond of them, and I don't blame you for it. But Jehan doesn't belong here. You have to understand that. You're not doing right by them by keeping them here."

Montparnasse did not answer. It was hard to speak when guilt was clogging his throat.

 

* * *

 

Jehan's presence became a painful reminder that Montparnasse was a jailor, not a host. Each glimpse of red hair, each burst of life and laughter clashed with the darkness and stillness of the Underworld. Jehan belonged to colourful flower fields and a rich soil. They deserved to gorge themself on sunlight and gentle rain. All Montparnasse had to offer were make-believes, pale imitations of life.

Lying under the dome of the willow tree, Montparnasse let himself drift to the sound of Jehan's voice. The lyre accompanied their carillon beautifully. Revived by the melody, the leaves seemed almost greener, healthier. The Flower deity breathed a new life into everything they touched.

"Do you miss Earth?" Montparnasse asked suddenly.

Jehan stopped singing, but their fingers still lingered on the lyre. Even without a tune, their voice was a melodious wonder.

"Sometimes," they said, their gaze lost in nothingness. "I miss looking at the stars at night and reading the stories they hold.

"What does it look like?"

The Underworld didn't have a sky. Its celestial arch was nothing but a void, pitch black and infinite. Even Asphodel, with it's blue sky and bright sun, had never known a starry night.

"Picture a warm light hidden behind a black veil, and the stars are little flecks of light shining through it. Some stars form a whole, a constellation and tell us stories about the past. I used to swim in a lake at night, just to see their reflection in the water and disturb their designs with the waves."

Why was it so easy to imagine? Montparnasse only had to close his eyes to see Jehan submerged to their shoulders, rearranging the stars in their reflection. He had taken that from them. How many earthly joys had he deprived them of?

"There is a lake just outside the gardens," he said, though he could not provide the stars.

"I know. I go there sometimes."

Montparnasse sat upright, his eyes looking for Jehan's. They could not live out of poor substitutes. As much as it hurt his pride, the Underworld could never compare to Earth. Gently, Montparnasse took Jehan's wrist and felt the weight of their black cuff in his palm. Touching was rare between them, but Jehan did not move away. The warmth of their skin balanced the cold of the metal.

"I do not wish for you to be my prisoner anymore."

The cuffs vanished from Jehan's wrists, leaving nothing but soft skin against Montparnasse's palm. No sooner had he noticed that the contact broke, the deity looking closer at their naked wrists. His heart grew heavier from the loss and that to come.

"You are no longer bound to the Underworld," he explained solemnly. "You may leave and gaze at your stars now."

A crease grew slowly on Jehan's forehead, their eyes looking into Montparnasse's for answers. The moment they understand, he thought, they will be out of here without a single glance behind. Fingers brushed over the palm of his hand. Montparnasse looked down at their joined hands, confused.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," Jehan said, their voice as silky as their skin.

There was a pounding in his chest, an intoxicating warmth Montparnassse could not explain. His lips broke into an elated smile so wide his cheeks hurt. The sensation flooding through him was as violent as anger, but infinitely sweeter. Infinitely stronger.

"Besides," Jehan continued, their face beautifully flushed, "I need to stay here for my―our―tree. It may die if I leave. I can not take the risk and ruin our time and efforts."

Montparnasse nodded. It was not the tree he cared about. He didn't care about Gavroche's warnings either, not anymore. All that mattered was Jehan's smile and the hand clasping his. There were stars shining in their eyes and constellations of freckles adorning their shoulders. Who cared about the night sky? Jehan was celestial enough.

 

* * *

 

The Palace was full of souls that day. Each harvest called for a feast, breaking the usual monotony of the Underworld. The good and the worthy were there, eating the purple and black fruits and making merry. The King was nowhere to be seen, but his absence was not unusual. He rarely attended the feast.

Montparnasse did not find the Flower deity in the gardens, for once. He stopped by the tree they were growing together, but Jehan was not under it as they usually were. The tree was as tall as Montparnasse now, its trunk thick with bark and its leaves large and gleaming. A red flower had burgeoned at the tip of a branch. Their creation would soon bear its own fruits.

Further down the path, the shore of the lake appeared on the horizon. Small ripples were dancing on the inky black water, all leading to a stark splash of white and orange. Montparnasse walked up to the line where the pebbles met the water. The sole of his sandals rolled gently on the gravel, giving his presence away.

"I thought you'd be at the palace," Jehan said, surprised.

"I've heard the same stories for centuries, I've grown bored of them a long time ago."

Jehan twirled in the water, creating more ripples.

"Care to join me?" they smiled.

"Another day, perhaps."

To tell the truth, he didn't know if he wanted his chiton to soak in the water. The cloth was exquisite and he intended to wear it for a millennium longer.

"I want to show you something," he said. "Everybody is feasting at the palace, all the great heroes are there. Elysium is empty."

It did not take more convincing for Jehan to swim back to shore. As they stepped out of the water, Montparnasse was made keenly aware of their shape. The wet tunic embrace their skin tightly, outlining their body perfectly. He looked away, certain his gaze wasn't allow to wander there, though his mind inevitably did. They walked together back to the palace, the roar of conversations growing as they got closer. Jehan retired to their chambers to slip on a drier chiton while Montparnasse waited in the corridor.

"You may take my hand," they said when they reappeared a few minutes later.

Montparnasse, who had reached for their shoulder, broke into a small smile. He would never tired of how warm their hands were. Their palms met and a blink later, the black marble walls fell.

White marble stood in their place. In many respects, Elysium were similar to Asphodel. The landscapes were immense and luxuriant, but where Asphodel was an elaborate illusion of Nature, Elysium was a testimony of grandeur. It was a metropolis of palaces and greeneries, with columns, fountains and statues reaching for a golden sky. It was Montparnasse's more treasured creation, a place of opulence and sophistication all in alabaster and gold.

By his side, Jehan looked up at the painted ceiling, awe flooding their face. Even by divine standards, both of them were swallowed by the immensity of it all. One hand still holding Montparnasse's, Jehan slid the other over a marble column. Outside, a forest of similar yet never identical structures was waiting to be explored.

"The tales rarely mention your craftsmanship," Jehan mused.

"What do the tales say about me, then?"

Jehan blushed at the question. Surely, the answer wouldn't please him, but Montparnasse was not surprised.

"They talk of a lazy and arrogant god, cruel even," they said, clearly embarrassed.

Montparnasse huffed, but did not disavow. He would have, a few months ago, but not anymore. A thumb ran gently across the back of his hand.

"You create such beautiful things," Jehan whispered, their words bouncing against the empty room.

"Shall we explore, then?"

There was just the sound of their steps and the distant burble of the fountains. Jehan's eyes were wide with wonderment, their neck twisting to get an eyeful of everything. Montparnasse, on the other hand, wasn't looking at the ceilings or the carvings. They walked through palaces and elaborate gardens. Their hands only let go when they reached a large paved agora. Jehan ran off towards a fountain and, in the blink of an eye, disappeared.

"Jehan?"

Montparnasse's heart ran faster. He looked around, confused. He couldn't have lost them! They were right here just a second ago! Frowning, he looked over the fountain, checking Jehan wasn't bathing there. Nothing. Worry rose in his chest.

"Jehan?" he called louder.

Someone whistled behind his back. Swiftly, Montparnasse turned around. Jehan was leaning against a wall a bit further down the agora, a playful smile blooming on their face. No sooner had Montparnasse spotted them that they ran behind a column, their laughter echoing throughout the structure.

And so the chase began. Jehan was light on their feet, their legs free of movement. Montparnasse couldn't quite say the same. His longer chiton impaired his running drastically. He thus had to rely on his wits. Elysium was his creation, and he knew it like the back of his hand. Jehan's path was easy to anticipate, but they were too fast for him. Montparnasse was, after all, a lazy good, unlike Jehan who spent their days running around meadows.

Hidden behind a column, Montparnasse could hear Jehan getting closer, not only thanks to their sandals hitting the stone, but their giggling, too. Closer. Closer. Red hair flashed before his eyes and Montparnasse sprung on Jehan, capturing their waist. The giggling increased tenfold. They wiggled against his grasp, but their struggle was nothing but playful pretend. Running had coloured their cheeks, making them even warmer than usual. Jehan's laboured breathing blew against his lips, setting Montparnasse's body alight. He could kiss them. They were a tilt of chin away. He didn't know where this craving stemmed from, but it was deeply rooted into his flesh like a visceral need.

He let go, leaving Jehan's lips untouched. They kept walking idly through Elysium like nothing had happened, as if their bodies had not been pressed one against the other just a second ago.

The feast was still going full swing when they returned to the palace. Montparnasse offered to walk Jehan back to their chambers, both of them weary from all the walking and running. Divine beings or not, rest was the cure to all ailments.

"Goodnight," Montparnasse said once they had arrived to their door.

"Goodnight."

Without a hint of hesitation, Jehan hauled themself up onto the pads of their toes and kissed him. As simply as that. Montparnasse turned to stone, the touch taking him off-guard. Then, slowly, a lone spark travelled through his body, then two, than a thousand. _The Flower deity breathed a new life into everything they touched_. Life was buzzing against his lips. Montparnasse could feel it all. He could feel the sun hitting his skin and rain pelting against his chest. He could taste honey and fresh fruits. It felt better than vengeance. It felt better than victory. It felt better than anything. He held Jehan desperately, cupping their jaw with his hands. He was drunk on their sweetness, satisfied and craving at the same time, his lips begging for more.

Jehan pulled away softly, their cheeks flushed and their breath stolen away.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

 

* * *

 

Jehan's warmth lingered on Montparnasse's lips all night, keeping him wide awake. Heat was not something he was used to. The Underworld was cold by nature, and so was its ruler. The glow did not stop there. With each breath, Montparnasse inhaled it a bit more, allowing it to travel through him. The sensation was foreign, but pleasant. Something had been growing within him for the past month, though he couldn't quite name it. The warmth filling his chest was enough to make it bloom at last.

Montparnasse woke up to the sound of the lyre. The feast was over, and the palace had gone back to its usual heavy silence, except for the crystalline melody. Montparnasse rolled onto his back, a drowsy smile painted on his lips. His heart was singing along.

There was no audience gathered around the musician when Montparnasse found them. Jehan was usually listened to and observed, when they decided to play inside. Souls loved entertainment. It furnished their long millennia of rest. The novelty of the lyre must have waned quickly, for the drawing room was empty, save for Jehan who was sat on a backless stool. Montparnasse leant his shoulder against the wall, gazing at them fondly.

"You really should give Enjolras his lyre back," Jehan said, their eyes still focused on their fingers.

"You knew?"

Jehan glanced up, smiling.

"Of course I knew. Who do you think taught me?"

So that was what Enjolras did with his time, teaching music? Montparnasse straightened his back and took a few steps towards them.

"Will you teach me?" he asked.

His voice struggled against his tight throat. If there was one thing he hated, it was inadequacy. Admitting his lack of knowledge was not something he did everyday, and his heart beat faster for it. But he remembered how Jehan had taught Claquesous, how close they had sat and the constant touch of their hands. The breeze of Jehan's breath dancing on his neck against a mouthful of swallowed pride.

"Of course," Jehan said, their voice devoided of mockery.

Their positions were awkward. Sat behind Montparnasse, Jehan was too short to look over his shoulder and guide him. They had to rest their head in the crook of his neck to see the lyre. As a result, Montparnasse studied them more than the instrument. His fingers were steady, but he didn't know how to use them on the chords. Jehan always made it look effortless, but the skill was not so easily obtained.

"Your posture is good, but your arms are too stiff," Jehan explained after a few minutes.

"We are not all made of zephyrs and sunlight," Montparnasse grumbled sullenly.

Jehan's hand slid along his arm, reaching for his hand. Chills trailed back up his shoulder in return, almost making him shiver. Fingers guided his, pressing on the right chords, but Montparnasse couldn't care less about music in that moment.

"Why did you kiss me?" he whispered.

"Because I wanted to."

His hand relaxed into Jehan's. If his arms had been stiff before, it was no longer the case. Montparnasse let himself melt against the smaller frame of the Flower deity.

"I'm glad you did."

 

* * *

 

Their routine hardly changed. Montparnasse still went on his duties every day and joined Jehan by their tree once his tasks were completed. The only notable additions were the light touches, lingering looks and gladly given kisses. Montparnasse could live with that change. He had embraced it wholeheartedly.

The flowers that decorated the tree a few days ago had already grown into red buds. Judging by how fast the tree was thriving, the fruits would be ripe in a few weeks.

"Do you know what it will be?" Montparnasse asked.

The foliage was thick enough to provide a nice shade now. Lying underneath it, Montparnasse was gazing at Jehan, who was busy nurturing the little buds.

"No more than you do. I have never grown that type of tree before. I never know what to expect here."

Montparnasse stretched, filling the grass tickling his neck.

"I wonder what they'll taste like," Jehan thought aloud.

"They'll be sweet," Montparnasse declared, lifting himself on his elbows. "Just like you."

Jehan cast a glance over their shoulder, a small smile dancing on their lips.

"I'm hardly the only one who grows them. They'll have something of you, I'm sure."

Sharing had never been Montparnasse's strength, whether it was goods, victory or power. But creating something with Jehan, something that bore both of their marks was appealing. Mortals had children they cared for and looked after. Jehan and Montparnasse had this unlikely tree, born from the former's hands and sustained by the latter's.

"What do I taste like?" Montparnasse asked, genuinely curious.

Death was the only answer that came to mind. Jehan was sweet and warm, bursting with life from head to toe. Montparnasse was their obverse, cold, perhaps even bitter. What lingered on his lips when Jehan kissed him? Bitterness?

"Funerals," Jehan answered.

Montparnasse scowled and a bright laugh followed. In a matter of second, Jehan's face was hanging over his, their long hair stroking his cheeks.

"It's not a bad thing! People always bring the most fragrant flowers at funerals, so that the departed will smell them in the afterlife. You smell of the incense they burn to accompany the dead on their journey, too."

The cascade of red hair engulfed him as Jehan kissed him lightly.

"There's copper hanging at the corner of your lips, from the coins the dead wear on their eyes."

Flowers, incense and copper. It wasn't so bad. Montparnasse lifted a hand to Jehan's cheek and received a kiss on his palm, warm lips against cold skin. For a second, he imagined what Jehan's hair would look like under the earth's light, how sunlight would set them ablaze. They would go to the surface together one day. Jehan would show him all beautiful things earth could provide. They would look at the stars and Montparnasse would see their patterns for himself. Yes. One day they would.

 

* * *

 

"Aren't you cold?"

Standing by the water, Montparnasse was watching Jehan swimming in the lake, their body invisible from the neck down. They enjoyed swimming a bit too much for an Earth deity.

"You'd know the water is quite warm if you'd go in, for once."

Montparnasse rolled his eyes at the nagging. It wasn't the first time Jehan had tried to coax him onto joining them. If the Flower deity was like a fish in the sea, the King of the Dead was not fond of swimming. Several centuries of solid ground beneath his feet had left him rusty.

"Montparnasse, please," Jehan tried, assuming a pleading look.

"I'm not the best of swimmers," he grouched as he kicked some pebbles into the water.

"You can not drown. Come on."

Montparnasse exhaled his resolve in a ragged sigh. Very well. Cursed be the influence they had on him. Kicking off his sandals, Montparnasse noticed the gown discarded on the pebbles. Oh. His gaze went from the bundle to Jehan, who had already averted their eyes to give him privacy. The pins holding his tunic together came off and, with them, the rest of his garments. When his toes brushed the water, Montparnasse barely felt it. The lake was as cold as he was. A few paces away, Jehan was waiting for him.

"You lied," he said when he reached them. "You must be awfully cold!"

Jehan's pink lips had deepened into a faint purple.

"I did," they smirked, their hands cupping Montparnasse's cheeks as thought to kiss him.

Expectant, Montparnasse closed his eyes, his neck bending slighting to meet Jehan's mouth. A second later, his head was submerged, brought down by two traitorous hands. Through the water, he could hear Jehan laugh. By the time he got back on the surface, the trickster had swum a little further away. Instinctively, Montparnasse rushed right at them, catching their waist in retaliation. He was suddenly very aware of the naked body flushed against his, though he couldn't see it. The water was too opaque to make out anything from below their collarbones.

"I've got you," he boasted.

"A bad swimmer, you said?" Jehan quipped with an eyebrow raised.

They stayed in the water for hours, chasing each other from one bank to the other. They had the verve and mischief of young gods, their laughs bouncing on the surface of the lake. The Underworld's glow had dimmed when they went back to the little beach of pebbles. Nudity was no longer a concern, though Jehan still blushed out of sheer habit. Their dry clothes stuck to their wet bodies on the way back to the palace.

"You may come in," Jehan said as they opened the door to their chambers.

Montparnasse's heart jumped in his chest. He had never been allowed in, or, rather, never been invited in. The room itself was not a surprise, he had designed it with the rest of the palace, after all. The most surprising aspect was what Jehan had made of it. The linen keepers had provided them with colourful drapes and cloths that they had hung in every corner. Cushions littered the floor, bed and couches. Were these his chambers, Montparnasse would never leave the comfort it offered.

Dry clothes were waiting for Jehan on a table.

"How good are you at dice?" they asked, their fingers stroking the fabric of a red tunic.

"Better than Babet," Montparnasse huffed.

Standing behind Jehan, Montparnasse drew the curtain of red hair delicately from their neck, planting a kiss on their skin. Then another. And another one. A red mark appeared beneath his lips and Jehan's head lull with a sigh. The dice were long forgotten. A field of roses bloomed on their neck and shoulder, and desire blossomed in Montparnasse. He wanted them. Under him, on top of him, around him, in him, it didn't matter. His lips sucked harder on a lovely bruise. Slowly, one of his hands trailed up Jehan's thigh, wandering just below the wet cloth.

"Montparnasse, stop."

Montparnasse stepped back away immediately, as though burnt. Lost and out of breath, he watched Jehan turn around to face him, their cheeks burning.

"I do not share your enjoyment of... carnal pleasures."

Their voice was shy but steady, as though they had been waiting for this moment to arise.

"You may mark my neck all you like but not... this."

A strange tension was floating between them. Montparnasse swallowed hard, repressing his desires as much as he could. Uncertain of what he was allowed to touch, Montparnasse lifted his hand to Jehan's cheek, not quite touching it.

"I understand," he said earnestly. Silence lingered between them, heavy and awkward. "Do you want me to go?"

"No," Jehan whispered, taking Montparnasse's hand in theirs and pressing it against their cheek. The uneasiness melted at the touch. "Stay. Stay the night, please."

They rested in the same bed, that night, tangled in the same thin sheets. Montparnasse's hands never explored the tender skin below Jehan's waist, yet the intimacy of the embrace was unprecedented. He held them close, enveloped in their warmth. Jehan clung to him in their sleep, their breath blowing softly in his neck. I'm never getting out of this bed, Montparnasse told himself before falling asleep.

 


	4. Winter

A sleepy whimper escaped Jehan's lips as Montparnasse shuffled his way out of the bed in the morning. As much as he wanted to keep his oath and lie against them for the rest of times, his duties were waiting for him. To think tales painted him as a lazy god... Sat on the bed, Montparnasse gazed at the sleeping deity. He drew back the red hair that had fallen in front of their eyes, revealing their peaceful face. He could get used to this, sleeping by Jehan's side, adoring them in their slumber. A kiss on their temple later, Montparnasse was gone.

If Claquesous had any comments, he kept them for himself. The King could only imagine what Thénardier was going to say, when he learnt Montparnasse and the Flower deity now shared a bed. He would surely be accused of lying with the enemy. Thénardier was no doubt the only one who still considered Jehan as such. The God of Chaos had not reappeared since his private humiliation, and the longer he stayed away the better. Montparnasse had no time to lose with his ludicrous prejudice.

Everywhere he went, Montparnasse could feel the print of Jehan's body against his, like a phantom presence. Oh, he couldn't wait to join them later, to outline their lips with his and to talk about whatever things they had in mind that day.

"Impatient, are we?" Claquesous quipped, his mouth barely curling into a smile.

Montparnasse saw the last one of his tasks like a deliverance. Immediately, his steps led him to the gardens, looking for Jehan under the foliage. Claquesous was right, he _was_ impatient. He always had been, but craving someone, their voice, their touch... That was new. And intoxicating. Jehan was neither under their tree nor the willow. Hopeful, Montparnasse went to lake, expecting their hair to float on the surface like a flame burning on water. The lake was empty and undisturbed. The King of the Dead frowned, trying to ignore the violent throbbing in his chest. No. Surely Jehan was with Babet, playing whatever game of their invention, or even with Gueulemer. They wouldn't have left without saying goodbye.

No one had seen the Flower deity. Montparnasse asked the servants, the linen keepers, the Erinyes, Claquesous... There was no sign of them anywhere. Worry grew stronger in Montparnasse's chest, like a tight grip. The lingering sensation of Jehan's body was burning his skin, as though trying to carve itself onto his bones. His steps reverberated throughout the palace in his search. At each empty room, his heart sunk lower. They could not have left...

His hand trembled on the wooden panel leading to their chambers. Pushing the door open felt like jumping off a cliff. Montparnasse's knees almost gave under him. In the bed, the hills and valleys of Jehan's body were rising and sinking calmly, exactly where he had last seen them. Montparnasse swallowed hard, relief flooding through him, almost making him giddy.

Jehan opened their eyes to his approach, their face still somewhat caught in slumber. They were here. They had not left. Montparnasse cupped their jaw and gave them a desperate kiss, muffling their surprised gasp. He wanted all the sugar on their lips and the softness of their hands and never let go.

"Montparnasse, what is it?" Jehan asked as soon as the kiss ended.

"Nothing, nothing at all."

His voice cracked, rousing suspicion. Jehan was no fool. They took Montparnasse's chin between their fingers and forced their eyes to meet. Their lids were still heavy with sleep, but it did not prevent Montparnasse to drown in the immensity of their irises.

"I feared you were gone," he confessed in a shameful whisper.

Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around their waist, resting his head against their chest to feel them close. What sort of fool gave another person the power to destroy them? Why did he allow himself to care so deeply? He knew better and yet here he was, clinging to Jehan like a lifeline. A kiss fell atop his head like a drop, followed by a rain of others crowning him with something more precious than silver and gold. He could almost feel flowers growing where their lips had touched him. A crown of flowers. Maybe he should craft them one, some day.

"I told you," they said, "I am exactly where I want to be. My tree still needs me. The fruits will be ripe soon."

"Did you leave the bed at all?" Montparnasse asked, his throat still tight.

He could feel Jehan shaking their head.

"I didn't feel like it. Too tired."

Their fingers played with Montparnasse's hair.

"I told you the water was too cold," he reproached softly. "You exhausted yourself."

"Fetch the lyre, will you? Practice makes perfect. I won't let your fingers rust."

They both stayed in the bed that day, the lyre going from hand to hand, from pupil to teacher. Gentle laughs and music filled the chambers for hours. Still, worry lingered on Montparnasse's mind. Though Jehan was in the best of spirits, he couldn't help but notice the weariness weighing their limbs down. From all the swimming, no doubt, he kept telling himself. Another crystalline laugh warmed his being and drowned his concerns.

Jehan did not stir on the following day either. For the most part, Montparnasse let them sleep, in the hope that it would cure their sudden fatigue. They will be healed tomorrow, he thought. He would grow lily pads on the lake and they would skip stones together.

By the third day, Montparnasse grew troubled. Lethargy had never been like Jehan. They were meant to run on the grass and dance under the rain. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his core. Gods slept by pleasure, not necessity. Yet, Jehan was drowsy more often than not, their body heavy with exhaustion. When Montparnasse inquired about their needs, he was only met with a smile and open, though weak, arms.

Frustrated by his helplessness, he tried taking them to Asphodel on the fourth day. Flowers only bloomed under the sun, didn't they? Jehan lay amongst daisies and poppies, the grass acting as a pallet beneath their back. By their side, Montparnasse was playing with their hair.

"Montparnasse?"

"Yes?"

"It's too bright for me here..."

Tears were rolling down their cheeks. They were in pain. Horrified, Montparnasse took them in his arms and brought them back to bed at once. In the sudden obscurity, Jehan sighed in relief. They wiped off the salty trails sticking to their skin, their movements painfully languid.

"I'm sorry," Montparnasse said, covering their forehead with kisses. "I thought it would help. I'm sorry."

The King of the Dead never apologised for anything, or so he thought. Rules never applied when Jehan was concerned. Seeing them in pain was worse than any torture he could think off.

"You can't apologise for making the sun too bright," Jehan smiled faintly, drawing Montparnasse's lips with their finger. "It was a kind thought, bringing me to the flowers."

"I'll bring the flowers to you tomorrow. No more bright sunlight, I promise."

Montparnasse did not sleep that night. He couldn't abandon himself to oblivion, not while Jehan's strengths were waning with every passing day. Nuzzled against his shoulder, Jehan hummed gently in their sleep. They looked blissful like this. No struggle, no weakness, just the tender embrace of slumber. Montparnasse watched them, raising his hand to caress their cheek. Even their warmth was fading, he could feel it. Anguish and sadness filled his lungs and he found himself unable to breath. His flower was wilting.

By the time Jehan opened their eyes, their chambers was still plunged in darkness. They rolled over, probably expecting Montparnasse's body next to theirs, but no one was there.

"Parnasse?" they called feebly.

"I'm here."

Sat by their bedside, Montparnasse smiled softly and lit another candle to brighten up the room.

"Come back to bed," Jehan whimpered.

"I have something to show you first."

Jehan hauled themself up onto their elbows, looking around the room. Everything was pitch back, except for the light of candles. They frowned.

"It's the middle of the night."

"And I brought you the stars."

All the candles went out as one, leaving nothing behind but plumes of smoke and darkness. Then, slowly, a light shone in the obscurity. Then a second. A third. Specks of light blinked by the thousand. Montparnasse heard a gasp.

It was nothing but a clever trick pulled off thanks to a handful of black sheets covering the openings and a needle, an umpteenth illusion, but Jehan's delight was worth the effort. Their awestruck face was freckled with light. Once Montparnasse had joined them in the bed, they designed constellations together, associating this star to that one, inventing stories that fit the cluster. The make-believe had kindled a semblance of strength in Jehan. Montparnasse listened to them and their stories, revelling in the energy shining through their voice. They could not see it yet, but there were flowers littering the floor. The Flower deity's chambers had become a meadow of undying petals.

The spark burnt out quickly. In a matter of hours, Jehan was back to being the shadow of themself. Their body snuggled up against Montparnasse's, they had gone silent, merely gazing at the fake stars.

"Jehan?" Montparnasse called.

A hushed hum rose from them. His chest tightened, crushed by the words he was about to say. He forced himself to swallow his heartache.

"Perhaps it is time for you to go home."

It left a faint taste of blood in his mouth. He could not even keep his voice steady. The Underworld would consume every drop of Jehan's strength until they were bled dry. He could not have that. He would not have that. In his arms, the withering flower felt colder.

"Not yet," they said, their voice weak yet unwavering. "I still need some time."

"Jehan, you don't have time!"

"I know I do!"

The fit of anger burst through the room. Montparnasse thought they would order him away, but they held him closer, their lips brushing his. Their tone was much calmer and pleading when they spoke again:

"Montparnasse, please. _Please_. Not until the fruits are ripe. I can hold until then, I know I can. Promise me."

A shooting star rolled along their cheek. Helpless and heartsick, Montparnasse cleaned their tepid skin and nodded. Jehan's days in the Underworld were counted. The clock was ticking.

 

* * *

 

The Underworld was flooded. Snow and famine had finally caught up with the human race. Bodies started to fall on Montparnasse's lap like sheaves of wheat during harvest. Just as Gavroche had predicted, the offerings made in his name grew poorer, more frugal. It was enough to feed on but insufficient to feast on. Claquesous came up with a rationing system, should the situation worsen.

The excess of souls and the lack of food meant little to Montparnasse. It was nothing but a mere inconvenience in the back of his mind. The extra souls could be dealt with, and the food could be rationed. There wasn't much he could do, however, for Jehan. Though their state was stable, it still pained him to see them like this. They barely went out anymore.

Montparnasse heard a dull sound coming from their chambers one day. He discovered them on the floor, unable to get up by themself.

"Jehan!"

He rushed to them, cradling their body against his.

"I wanted to go to the gardens," Jehan explained, choking down a sob.

Their legs were too wobbly, weakened by their bed rest. Since they could not carry themself anywhere, Montparnasse did so in their stead. He brought Jehan under their precious tree, laying them under the foliage to protect their sensitive eyes. It had missed their presence. Though it had grown, it had done so slowly. The red buds had grown, but were far from being ripe. Montparnasse's lips thinned. As long as their shell would be hard, Jehan wouldn't leave. How long until they fell asleep and never woke from their slumber? Immortal beings did not fear Death, but there was only so much their body could endure before shutting down.

Jehan's mind floated above those concerns. They smiled brightly at the round red shells and lifted their fingers to touch them.

"They're beautiful..." they whispered.

Montparnasse despised that tree as much as he had love it, once. It bore all the faults, all the guilt for Jehan's suffering. If he could, he would uproot it and get rid of it, use it as fire wood. But Jehan was too attached to the damn thing. They would hate him for destroying it.

"They'll be ripe soon," Jehan promised.

For a fleeting second, they were full of life again. Their face lit up and their lips looked redder. Montparnasse felt a drop of hope watering his weary heart. They shared a glance, a joyous, carefree glance. Their smile was light as a feather. Their body was heavy as lead, when it fell on the ground, unconscious.

"Jehan? Jehan!"

A cold wave submerged Montparnasse, burning his flesh and freezing his bones. Next thing he knew, they were back in Jehan's chambers, his arms trembling around them. A panicked haze overcame him. He couldn't think. What if they never woke up? He should have been stronger, he should have insisted! He should burn that cursed tree to the ground!

Jehan whimpered and fondled Montparnasse's chest. Tears welled up in his eyes. They were conscious. Still shaking, Montparnasse tuck them into bed, his movements slow and steady as to ground himself. He could not break now. Not here. He had to leave them in peace.

Hurried strides reverberated through the corridor. Blinking the tears away made his eyes burn. Servants and guards side-stepped out of his way. The doors of his chambers slammed behind him and Montparnasse let it all out. It was not just tears. It was all the fear that had built up in him crashing down at once. Montparnasse threw everything within reach, from plates to furniture, everything and anything in the hope it would calm him down. It only fuelled the fire.

"Gavroche!" he called incessantly. "GAVROCHE!"

The Messenger of the Gods kept him waiting. By the time his winged sandals fluttered to Montparnasse's ears, the room was already a mess.

"Has your conscience finally caught up with you?" Gavroche asked coldly.

His hard stare did not last the time of a glance when it fell on Montparnasse. The King of the Dead did not look like himself. He had forgone his regal bearing and imperious demeanour.

"Help me..." he pleaded.

His voice cracked. Gavroche looked at him like he barely recognised who was talking. Montparnasse's chest heaved dangerously, bracing itself for a new wave of sobs.

"What happened?"

"They're getting weaker by the day. They're―There's nothing I can do to help. Please, Gavroche, send someone, anyone. Take anything you want, gold, silver, food. Take everything but help them!"

He was not above begging anymore. If it was his offerings the gods of Olympus wanted, he would give them away gladly. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Whatever time Jehan thought they had left, they were overestimating their strengths.

"This is why you should have released them! They're not a pet you can keep at your leisure! Release them and―"

"I _have_ released them!" Montparnasse yelled. "I've done it weeks ago! It's Jehan who doesn't want to leave!"

Horror flashed over Gavroche's face.

"This changes everything," he mumbled, ashen-faced. "The famine, winter, everything."

Montparnasse was in no mood to ask what winter was. He grabbed a plate full of offerings that had miraculously survived his outburst and put it into Gavroche's hands.

"Give them this. I don't care if I have to bow to Enjolras himself," he said grimly.

There was no time to ponder on how low he had sunk. Gavroche nodded and disappeared at once. The urgency in Montparnasse's voice was enough to convince him. Left alone, the King of the Dead looked at his trashed chambers and broken furniture. They had been treasured possessions once, a testimony of his power. Everything in these rooms were replaceable. Jehan wasn't.

Claquesous slithered into the room more discreetly than if he had simply walked through the wall.

"I heard yelling," he said neutrally.

He managed to catch his own surprise at the sight of Montparnasse's distress, but not early enough to keep his detached mask on.

"They're not getting any better, are they?" he asked, though the question was only rhetorical.

Montparnasse raked a hand through his dishevelled hair and sat on the edge of his bed. The frame was somewhat damaged, but it still held fine. He could blame all the trees he wanted, at the end of the day, he was the one who had brought them here. Claquesous sat by his side, trading his counsellor's mask for that of friend. A deeply concerned one.

"I'll send someone to clean up the mess," he said.

"Thank you. I have my own mess to deal with," Montparnasse huffed.

It was too many emotions at once for him to deal with. Fear, sadness, anger and bitterness festered together in his stomach, making him sick. He hated that gods felt everything so intensely. Mortals didn't know their bliss. Their emotions were fleeting and quickly forgotten. Immortality meant that gods dragged their heartache like boulders for the rest of times.

"They really did a number on you, didn't they?"

A long sigh shook Montparnasse.

"I can't let them rot here," he said. "I've done more than enough to them. What would you have me do?"

"Letting Jehan go is in everybody's best interest, even Jehan's," Claquesous said, his counsellor's voice back on.

"They will not see it that way."

"Maybe not, but it is. Keeping them here could trigger the end of all things. It's not just about them, Parnasse. It's about all of us. The fate of the world is sleeping in silk sheets as we speak."

Montparnasse nodded. With Jehan gone, the crops would grow back. With Jehan gone, the order would be restored. The world would go round again. Then why did Montparnasse feel it collapse under his feet? It was not a matter of pride, anymore. Something else drove him.

Claquesous stood up.

"Come. Your kingdom needs you. Waiting here won't make Gavroche fly back any faster."

His counsellor was right. The influx of newly departed souls was endless, so much it was hard to keep track. Drowning his anguish in work was better than sitting around and wallowing in his dashed hopes.

News from Gavroche arrived a few hours later, as Montparnasse was sorting the souls of several thieves. An herald ran up to him.

"Your Highness, the Messenger of the Gods asks you to open the Gates. He brings the God of Medicine with him."

The God of Medicine. Enjolras. Of course it had to be him. He should have seen it coming, who else than the God of Healing to help Jehan's dwindling strengths? The poor remnants of his pride twisted his stomach. Fine, Montparnasse would suffer him. For Jehan's sake.

"Tell them to meet me in the Council room," he ordered.

The herald was gone as soon as they had appeared. The thieves would have to be dealt with later. Montparnasse sent for Claquesous and left for the Council room himself. He sat on the King's seat, a golden chair adorned with intricate designs. The King of the Dead might be begging on his knees, but at least he wanted to make an impression. Claquesous hardly had the time to appear by his side that the heavy doors opened.

The god standing by Gavroche was not Enjolras, not by a long shot. He lacked the long blond hair and blue eyes. He was smaller, too. Montparnasse frowned. Olympus counted so many deities it was hard to remember them all. The party walked towards the dais. The God of Medicine had a noticeable limp and relied on a tall silver staff to walk. As they got closer, Montparnasse noticed a green ribbon wound around the rod. A serpent.

"Montparnasse, King of the Dead, Ruler of the Underworld, this is Joly, God of Medicine. He came here willingly to help the Flower deity."

Gavroche usually never bothered with formal introductions and titles. Perhaps was he trying to salvage a drop of Montparnasse's dignity.

"Why would I trust a physician who can not cure his own leg?" he said, his eyes fixed on Joly's fancy walking stick.

A cloud of tension gathered in the Council room. Indignation flashed onto Gavroche's face, though his company did not react to the insult.

"Forgive him, my friend," Gavroche told Joly, glaring at Montparnasse. "Worry makes him speak out of turn."

Joly raised his hand, his peaceful stare fixed on the King. He took a couple more steps towards the dais, supporting himself on his staff.

"I gave my healthy leg to the man I love because I could not bear to see him suffer. If I understood correctly, you would be ready to do the same for Jehan."

Montparnasse's cold facade fell. Was Olympus aware of how much Jehan meant to him? Or did they just rely on Gavroche's words? Either way, the God of Medicine had stuck a chord with him.

"I wish them in good health as much as you do, but to do so, I need to see my patient. Would you be so kind as to guide me to them?"

The god was incredibly civil for an enemy. His voice was soft and soothing, like a balm. Montparnasse nodded and walked down the dais. Soon, the small council was guided through the corridors by the King himself. The heads turned behind them and whispers rose. Montparnasse walked on. When they arrived by Jehan's chambers, he stopped the God of Medicine from entering right away.

"There are sheets draped over the openings. Feel free to remove one of them, but not one more. Their eyes have grown sensitive to light. Mind the flowers, too."

Joly nodded.

"I will report to you when I am done. I will find my way back to the Council room."

The doors closed behind him. In the corridor, Montparnasse, Claquesous and Gavroche looked at each other and, silently, agreed to walk back to the Council room. They waited there, sat around a large wooden table. The impeding doom weighing on them did not prevent Gavroche from disgracing the beautiful polished oak with his dirty winged sandals. The minutes stretched. No one seemed in the mood to talk.

Steps rose from the corridor. They all stood up expectantly, staring at the doors. When Thénardier's face appeared behind the panel, a faint groan escaped the three of them. He was the last person needed in such a situation. He was the starting point of all this.

"What?" he said defiantly, looking at Montparnasse. "Do you think I want to starve? Your flower has become more trouble than they're worth. The sooner we get rid of them, the better."

A silent wave of outrage washed over the table.

"Sit down," Montparnasse spat out, overcome by disgust. "Another word and it's you I'm getting rid off."

Thénardier did as ordered, sitting as far away from them as possible. Seeing father and son reunited in the same room made an odd picture. As far as Gavroche was concerned, he did not even seem to acknowledge the blood their shared.

When the echo of Joly's staff rang outside the room, all but Thénardier stood for the second time. Joly looked grimmer than when he had left them. Montparnasse's heart jumped in his throat.

"They're very weak," the God of Medicine said. "The lack of food and water is one thing, but they also invested too much of their strengths into doing the impossible. That tree of theirs really took a toll on them. They would have been able to survive here six months, at least, but their exploit shortened those six months to three."

Montparnasse clenched his jaw. He knew he should have destroyed it. To think he had a hand in their demise... If he had just let it die, Jehan wouldn't be lying in a bed. He caught Gavroche confused expression and the curve of his mouth reading _"What tree?"_

"They refuse to leave until the fruits are ripe," Montparnasse said.

"I know," Joly sighed. "But they don't have that kind of time. They must be brought back to the surface as soon as possible before it's too late."

"Too late for what?"

"If we keep waiting, they will be too weak to cross the Gates of the Underworld. They won't be able to bear the journey between realms. They will be stuck here indefinitely, and we need them on Earth, we all do. Regardless of Musichetta's talents, everything that grows starts with a flower. Without Jehan, the Earth will be completely sterile, and sooner or later, we will all starve and weaken one after the other."

They all shared a knowing look. Jehan's removal was the only way out of this.

"They told me you freed them weeks ago," Joly said, looking at Montparnasse. "That you have treated them more as a guest than a prisoner."

"What?"

Thénardier had risen from his seat, baring his teeth. Montparnasse shushed him with a wave of his hand, like one silences a hound.

"Since they are here of their own free will, there is no point in pursuing winter," Joly continued. "We shall tell Courfeyrac to shed his warmth upon the earth."

"What is winter?" Claquesous asked.

"It's what mortals call what is happening," Gavroche answered. "Crops dying to the cold, the snow, the constant exodus. Winter."

Winter. The end of times. That was where they were heading. Still, a minuscule spark of hope kindled in Montparnasse's chest.

"Won't there be enough of Courfeyrac and Musichetta to revive the crops?"

"Like I said, flowers are the start of everything. There won't be any crops if Jehan doesn't return."

"Then it is settled," Montparnasse said solemnly, ignoring the laments of his heart. "Tomorrow, the Flower deity will be returned to earth." He swallowed thickly before adding: "Against their will or not."

They would hate him for it, Montparnasse knew it, but he didn't have a choice.

"Claquesous," he continued. "Tell the Erinyes to be ready. Jehan will be too weakened to pick up a fight, but I want it to be done quickly. They will walk them to the Gates."

"I will warn Olympus," Gavroche said, his sandals already flapping.

They each went to their task. Time was of the essence. Thénardier had vanished as well, at some point. Montparnasse had been too busy contemplating the bitter turn his world had taken to notice. Only he and Joly remained in the Council room. The God of Medicine was watching him with a grave expression on his face.

"I have to warn you," he said. "Olympus will seal the Underworld forever once Jehan is returned. You won't be allowed on earth, and no other god but Gavroche will be allowed here."

"I thought so," Montparnasse said, keeping his voice from wavering.

It made sense. No one wanted this to happen ever again. Montparnasse did destroy everything he touched. He would never seen them again. It was the last night they had together. His need for them tightened his chest. When was the last time he had held them close? It felt like centuries ago. Montparnasse made for the door, ready to rush to their chambers to spend what they had left together.

"Did you know?" the God of Medicine asked behind him. "Did you know you would fall in love with them?"

"Does anyone?"

 

He walked a funeral march to Jehan's chambers. The silence of the palace felt heavy on his shoulders. By the same time tomorrow, Jehan would not be here. By the same time tomorrow, he would have betrayed them. The thought was haunting. They would hate him, but at least they would be far away from this place, and healthier. He stopped in front of the doors and brace himself. He could do this. One last night. It was a selfish desire, to keep them for a little while longer, to say goodbye. But it was all he had.

The doors opened. Montparnasse took a couple of tentative steps before stopping dead. He clenched his fists. Bent over Jehan's bed, was Thénardier.

"What do you think you're doing?"

He forced himself to speak softly, for Jehan's sake. Both Thénardier and the Flower deity started. Montparnasse's glare cut like diamonds. He tilted his head towards the door in a silent order for the God of Chaos to leave. Crossing his King now would be a terrible idea. Thénardier walked out calmly, closing the doors behind him. He was less calm, however, when Montparnasse pinned him against the nearest wall.

"What did you tell them?" Montparnasse hissed between his teeth.

Jehan did not know. They could not know. Not until he said goodbye. His grip on Thénardier's chiton tightened.

"Nothing! I didn't tell them anything! I was apologising!"

It was a lie. Thénardier never apologised for anything. He was far too low and disgraceful for that. Montparnasse's eyes narrowed and he pressed the god's shoulders harder against the stone before letting go of him. He had more important things to do than deal with Thénardier. Much more precious and important things.

"Get out of my sight."

The corridor was empty. The only sound was that of Montparnasse's breathing. He stayed out of Jehan's room for a while to collect himself. He wanted none of that lingering anger between Jehan and him.

"Hey," he purred when Jehan opened their eyes.

In the bed, they had created a cocoon of sheets around themself. It was a lot more sheets than Montparnasse remembered. They were getting colder.

"I've missed you," he said, his thumb stroking Jehan's cheek.

" 'Had a lot of visitors," they mumbled sleepily.

The difference between their skin and Montparnasse's was barely noticeable. There was a faint trace of warmth, a flickering flame, but nothing else. They used to glow under the sun.

"What did Thénardier want with you?" Montparnasse asked tentatively.

"Nothing," Jehan yawned. "Some nonsense. I've missed you too."

They opened their cocoon of sheets to let Montparnasse in. Secure against their body, he held them tightly, as though to remember each detail once they were gone.

"It's been a strange day," Jehan mused softly.

"It most certainly was," he agreed.

Jehan fell asleep quickly. Montparnasse never took his eyes off them. He wanted to know each freckle, each strand of hair. He would never seen them again. It was the last time he held them. It was the last time he kissed them. At the thought, he kissed them some more on their forehead, their cheeks, their nose, their lips. He choked on the tears he was holding back. Nighttime was spent like this, Montparnasse holding Jehan, mourning the loss to come. Dawn arrived sooner than he expected. It was time.

"Forgive me," he whispered as he kissed their forehead one last time.

Tears flowed in spite of his best efforts. Jehan could not see them. They were still deep in the arms of slumber. Montparnasse wiped the tears off his face as he left the bed. Each step towards the door felt more painful than the last. Behind the door, Claquesous was waiting for him.

"Do what you have to do," the King rasped.

"Will you come to the Gates?"

"No."

 

* * *

 

The palace was unbearably silent. There was no lyre being played. There was no scream of protest. There were no cries. Silence had never bothered Montparnasse because he had never noticed it. Now it felt like a obvious gash, a void. Sitting in his chambers, he caught himself wishing for Jehan to sleep through it all, for the Erinyes to carry them gently in their sleep and for them to open their eyes in Olympus. Yes. It would be better this way. Not less painful, but better.

He heard steps rushing in the corridor. Montparnasse stood up. The doors slammed open.

"Your Highness!" Thénardier panted. "The Flower deity won't come willingly! We need your help to settle them down."

Montparnasse's heartbeat quickened. No. No! This was the opposite of what he wanted! He couldn't be the one... So many questions whirled in his mind. Jehan was already hardly a threat at the peak of their strengths, how could the Erinyes struggle against them? Where did Jehan find the energy to struggle in the first place?

"Where are they?"

"In the grounds just outside the palace. They could not manage to take them any further."

The walls of his chambers disappeared at once. The marble gave under his feet, replaced by ashy dirt. Panicked, Montparnasse looked around, barely aware Thénardier was following him closely. The quietude of the palace was long forgotten. There were shouts splitting the air and sounds of struggle. One voice in particular hit him the hardest.

"Let me go! Get off me!"

The scene was painful to watch. In a last fit of energy, Jehan was trying to escape the hands dragging them away, slipping away from their grasp as though their skin was covered in oil. They had not been on their feet for a week. Where did they find the stamina? Claquesous, Babet, Gueulemer and Brujon were not enough to get them under control. It made no sense. It was ludicrous! Montparnasse had picked Jehan like a flower, once! How could four healthy deities struggle against them? It was a knot of limbs, endless pairs of hands striving to get hold of Jehan, but ultimately failing to keep them still.

"Parnasse!"

His heart stopped. His gaze crossed Jehan's and the sight tore his chest open. Their cheeks were heavy with tears and red from exertion. Through the thick veil of pain darkening their eyes, a glimmer of hope sparked.

"Montparnasse, help me! Please! _Please_!"

Words eluded him. Everything eluded him. His own body would not move, frozen by Jehan's supplications. A voice rose behind him. Thénardier's voice.

"These are the _King's_ orders."

Silence fell once more. A tense, deafening silence. Jehan was not struggling anymore. The change in their expression was subtle at first, barely noticeable. They went from confusion to disgust and their face hardened in anger. Jehan's innate warmth turned stone cold. The glimmer of hope died in their eyes, like one blows out a candle.

"He's not my King."

A brutal wave hit Jehan's assailants full force, sending the Erinyes and Claquesous to the ground. The air thickened. In shock, they all stared at Jehan. They were glowing. It was not health that animated them. It was wrath. The ground trembled as though a rabid beast was clawing its way to the surface. Thick roots pierced through the dirt, caging Jehan's escort under a tight grip. Free from traitorous hands, the Flower deity took to their heels, running as far away as their legs would carry them. Fatigue and weakness were long forgotten, a mere memory. Shaking off his stupor, Montparnasse went after them.

"Jehan!"

They would not stop. They would not listen. Their rage was blind and deaf to anything he would say or do. Montparnasse managed to catch their arm, pulling them to him.

"Don't touch me!" they yelled.

An invisible force pushed him backwards, like a punch in his stomach. Gasping for air, Montparnasse raised his eyes towards Jehan. They were barely recognisable. The pretty and helpless woodland creature was gone. A terrifyingly beautiful being stood in their place. Jehan was not a daisy. Jehan was a storm. They were the blood dripping from roses' thorns. They were the waves crushing boats as easily as if they had been nutshells. They were life and destruction, all in one.

"Did you really think you could cage me like some little bird? That you had any kind of power over me?"

Their voice had taken a deeper and more menacing tone than Montparnasse had ever heard in their mouth. He tried to go to them, but found himself unable to move. Looking down at his feet, he saw green roots winding around his legs, holding him firmly in place. Horror gathered in his throat. When he looked up, Jehan's eyes had gone pitch back and their soft features had sharpened.

"Poor Jehan! Poor harmless little creature! I told you before: you didn't _take_ me here; you _brought_ me here. You weren't victorious, that day, I was! The impenetrable Gates of the Underworld opened for me, and for me alone! The King of the Dead escorted me to his Kingdom in person! Your arrogance made it so easy!"

The roots were twisting around his chest now, choking any kind of answer. His mouth opened, but nothing escaped it except a strangled sound. Montparnasse saw himself seizing Jehan effortlessly, binding them to the Underworld in one swift second. They had not struggled. They had been waiting for him.

"You were a smug fool, parading around with your hunting trophy! I could have broken out of your puny bracelets whenever I wanted, and you still thought I was the weak one! You were the weak one! Your pride blinds you to everything!"

"I told you he would try to send you away," Thénardier's sickening sugary voice chimed in.

Montparnasse clenched his jaw, furore raging in his stomach. Thénardier walked slowly in his field of vision, clearly relishing the sight of his King restrained and speechless. _You would do well not to provoke his anger_. Thénardier was a vulture feeding off misery, harvesting the seeds of discord he had sown.

"He never cared about you," he whispered to Jehan, looming over their shoulders like a shadow. "He's jealous of your power."

Jehan clenched their fists and the roots around Montparnasse tightened. Their black eyes were burning with hatred.

"Jehan, _please_ ," he managed to exhale. "You have to understa―"

"The King of the Dead wants the tree for himself," Thénardier continued, covering Montparnasse's voice. "He's sending you away because he doesn't need you anymore. You were nothing but a pawn in his game. They all wish to get rid of you except me."

There was triumph written all over Thénardier's face. His hands clasped Jehan's shoulders slowly, a mentor's touch. Montparnasse could feel bile rolling up his throat.

"Don't you dare touch them!" he roared, aching against the roots.

Suddenly, the mentor's touch shifted to a much more vicious hold. Thénardier wrapped his hand around Jehan's neck and held their arm twisted behind their back in an armlock. Jehan broke into a surprised and pained gasp. They tried to shuffle away from Thénardier's grasp, but it only increased their suffering.

"You're still my prisoner, whether you like it or not," he hissed.

He would pay. He would pay for every inch of skin he had touched. The more Montparnasse struggled against his restraints, the harder they became. He could feel them indenting his arms and legs, but he could not stop. Not when Jehan was trapped in Thénardier's claws, gasping for air.

"Chains suit you, Montparnasse," the God of Chaos purred. "I shall enjoy seeing you in them. At first I thought I'd make you a servant and use you as a footstool, but I've changed my mind. You'll look much better chained to a wall. I'll lay your pretty flower in a glass coffin so that you can watch them wilt a bit more every single day for the end of times."

"You doom us all if you don't release them," Montparnasse breathe out with difficulty.

The end of times would come knocking on his door too soon for Thénardier to even enjoy his victory. The lack of offerings would affect him too, sooner of later. All the threats of the world could not prevent that.

"I'm Chaos, Montparnasse. I will always exist, in one form or another. You think petty details like sustenance affect me? I'll rule over the Underworld and Olympus while you're too weak to even open your eyes! The last thing you'll see is your dainty little flower going to was―"

The rest of his sentence disappeared behind a cry of pain. Thénardier let go of Jehan, watching his hands in terror. Blisters had blossomed all over his palms. Before Montparnasse's eyes, the Flower deity was radiating heat and fury. It only took a wave of their hand for news roots to crack free from the ground and entrap the God of Chaos. In comparison to Thénardier's, Montparnasse's restraints were soft ribbons barely caressing his skin.

"Who do you think you are, you coward?"

Jehan's voice the rumble of thunder. They clenched their fist and something cracked under the root's embrace. The traitor let out a yelp.

"What possessed you to think you could raise your hand on me? You're nothing. You're a speck of dust rolled around by the wind. You know nothing of torment, and you know nothing of power. I'm growth and decay! Birth and destruction! I could crush you with my bare hands! I could grind you to nothing under my feet!"

As to illustrate their words, a root wound around Thénardier's neck. Jehan's fist was so tight their nails were almost drawing blood. Trapped as a mere witness, Montparnasse felt a sick sensation rushing into him. How long could Jehan sustain this? How much energy did they have left?"

"Jehan, stop!"

He saw their knuckles go white under the pressure. Thénardier's face was changing colour as well.

"You will curse the day you made an enemy of me," Jehan hissed to the God of Chaos.

"Jehan!"

Their fist eased slightly. Montparnasse held his breath. It was his turn. Jehan would snap his head off in their wake. Did they remember him at all, beneath all that rage and resentment? Did his treason outweigh the bliss of the past months? Montparnasse braced himself. Perhaps he deserved it, for all the hurt he had cause. The songs of men would slander his name and drag it through the mud. Montparnasse, the King of the Dead, who destroyed up the very one he loved. Slowly, Jehan looked over their shoulder. Their cold black eyes had returned to their original warm brown irises. Relieved, Montparnasse felt his lips twitch into a faint smile. Their eyes only had time to meet before Jehan's body gave under them and collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

Suddenly, the roots loosened around him. Montparnasse shook them off frantically, determined to get to Jehan's body before Thénardier. He did not have to worry. Free from their own bounds, Claquesous and the Erinyes were onto the God of Chaos in a matter of seconds. Montparnasse rushed over to Jehan, falling to his knees. Nothing remained of the fearsome being that had shaken the Underworld to its core mere seconds ago. Their features were peaceful, but they looked as fragile as glass. Dark circles had appeared under their eyes and their lips were pale as death. Montparnasse cupped their face delicately in his hands. Their skin was as cold as his own. All their fire had burnt out.

"Jehan," he called softly, ignoring the tremors running through him. "Jehan, please..."

A painful lump was blocking his throat. He was barely aware of Thénardier whimpering and snarling a few paces away from him. The only glance he spared for the traitor was when Claquesous' voice rose, addressing him directly.

"What shall we do with him, your Highness?"

Gueulemer's iron grip was not one Thénardier could escape. Even in that respect, that perfidious turncoat was weaker than Jehan. As the opportunistic and despicable creature he was, Thénardier immediately started begging for forgiveness. His lament remained unheard and unanswered, no matter how hard he would wail.

"Do whatever you see fit," Montparnasse ordered flatly, looking at Claquesous.

His subjects nodded as one. Silently, Montparnasse picked up the broken piece of his heart and carried them back to their chambers. It was over. Jehan would never cross the Gates now. Perhaps they would never wake up either. Their last memory of Montparnasse would be betrayal.

Gavroche arrived in the room a few minutes later, confused. He had been waiting at the Gates all this time, ready to take Jehan back to Olympus. Upon hearing about his father's treachery, the Messenger nodded, but did not seem surprised. It was in his father's nature, after all, to seek opportunity in the shadows. He rested his hand on Montparnasse's shoulder giving him a compassionate squeeze. For once, the Messenger did not have a good word to say, even a reassuring one. Their fate was sealed, not just Jehan's, but the rest of the world's also. Montparnasse was grateful for the lack of conversation. He would not have been able to answer, anyway.

Reports from the Erinyes were given to him, but Montparnasse hardly cared. Sitting by Jehan's bedside, his eyes never left their ashen face. He would personally deal with Thénardier's fate later. Now was a time of grief, not vengeance. He ordered for more blankets to be brought. Above all else, he didn't want Jehan to be cold.

After a while, Joly visited as well. Montparnasse had forgotten to seal the Gates. What use now? The end of times was nigh, there was no reason to pursue his gate keeping. The God of Medicine confirmed what he already knew. Jehan was too weak to cross. Montparnasse could not even say he was sad. He was broken, numb. He simply acknowledged with a choked grunt. The god who precipitated the end of the world, drunk on his pride. It was quite the title.

When the sight of Jehan became too much to bear, he found refuge in the gardens. They had been their playground for three months, their haven. They had held hands down this path and kissed under that tree. Montparnasse could still taste them, like honey lingering on his lips. They had laughed and sung there. The Underworld would never know any more songs. It would become the tomb it had been designed to be.

A splash of red bled in his vision. The tree was standing there, as though nothing had happened. It was taunting Montparnasse with his healthy lush leaves and its red fruits. It had drained life out of Jehan, sucking every heartbeat out of them. The fruits were almost pulsing. They had stolen the colour from Jehan's lips. Montparnasse's numbness was suddenly poisoned with anger. He wanted to tear the tree to shreds, make it suffer for all Jehan had suffered. He yanked a fruit off a branch and threw it against another trunk with all his might. The fruit burst open at the impact and two halves fell on the ground. Inside, seeds were palpipating.

Montparnasse frowned and took a tentative step forward. The fruits had been ripe all along. Their hard shell had mislead them! He felt frustration rising in him but, at the same time, a glimmer of hope shone in his eyes. Those seeds bore life. Those seeds carried both Jehan and Montparnasse in them. In the cup of the shell, their design copied that of lungs. No. That of a heart.

His mind was going too fast for words. Back at the palace, Montparnasse had the greatest difficulty to explain his discovery to a very sceptical Joly.

"Jehan can not eat or drink anything from the Underworld, but _this_ isn't from the Underworld! Their own strengths flow in that tree!"

"Even if it's true," Joly said, "there is still a non-negligible part of you in those fruits."

"What do we have to lose?" Montparnasse exclaimed, pacing around the council room. "They are trapped here anyway! Eating it won't make a difference if it fails!"

Joly inspected the fruit closer, turning it in his hands. It was as new to him as it was to Montparnasse. There was still, however, a problem.

"Are they―Are they going to wake up?" Montparnasse asked.

He could not possibly shove the seeds down their throat. Joly nodded slowly.

"They will be in poor shape, but yes, they will wake up. They don't have long left before sleep swallows them whole, however."

Montparnasse did not need to hear more. He took the half Joly was not holding and strode out of the Council room. It would work. It had to work. The seeds had stopped throbbing in the shell. They carried life, he knew it. It would be enough to revive Jehan and help them cross the Gates. The thought stopped him. They would be gone for good this time. No, he couldn't afford to be selfish. It was his duty to nurture them back to health and to send them back under friendlier skies.

So he waited. Their outburst had consumed them so badly that Jehan did not even move in their sleep. Sometimes, Montparnasse wondered if Joly was no mistaken, if Jehan would ever stir. After two days watching over them, Montparnasse heard the sheets ruffling. His back straightened at once. In the bed, Jehan's lashes fluttered. Their cheek fondled the pillow. A lump grew in Montparnasse's throat and he blinked his tears away. Their eyes met for a second before Jehan averted their gaze.

"I thought you had grown to love me..." they whispered.

The blow was too painful for such weak voice. Montparnasse hovered a hand over their cheek, uncertain he was even allowed to touch them. He remembered Thénardier's hands covered in blisters.

"I have. I do. I love you."

"Then why did you try to cast me out?"

They didn't know, he realised. They didn't know how weakened they were.

"I would rather have you full of life away from me than cold as death by my side. I can't keep you here forever. The Gods needs you, the mortals need you, _I_ need you. You were―Jehan, this place will eat you alive, and the whole world will follow."

Blinking wasn't enough anymore. Tears started flowing, pouring down his cheeks. Crying had never been amongst his habits before, even less so around witnesses. But he couldn't help himself.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should never have brought you here. It's my fault, it's all my fault. I was―I was―"

His chest heaved incontrolably. It felt like drowning. He tried to dry his cheeks with the back of his hand, but to no avail. Something had broken in his core and left him aching.

"Montparnasse? Take my hand."

Carefully, his own fingers damp with tears, Montparnasse pulled their arm out of the covers and pressed a trembling kiss onto Jehan's palm. He was not even sure they could feel it, not matter how hard he would pressed his lips against their skin.

"Forgive me. I was a fool, nothing but a fool!"

"I chose to come here," Jehan said feebly. "I wanted to, I was curious and I tricked you into thinking I was harmless. I played you, and for that I'm sorry."

Their hand fell on Montparnasse's shaking shoulder. There were some noticeable bruises running along his arms, where he had struggled against the roots. Guilt flashed over Jehan's face at the sight.

"And for that too, I'm sorry. I was―"

"Betrayed. I know. I don't hold it against you. Thénardier has a way of getting into your head."

"But I listened to him."

"As did I."

They looked into each other's eyes, heavy with the weight of their mistakes. Jehan's were strikingly brown against their livid skin, almost black. It was the only dash of colour left on their face. They were nearly as translucent as the leaves of the willow tree. A pale imitation of life.

"I have to leave, don't I?" they murmured.

Montparnasse nodded, his thumb caressing their cheek. Pearls kept rolling down his face, he had not yet found a way to stop them from flowing.

"I wish there was another way. Your talents are needed elsewhere, you can't—Without you on earth, everything that is will cease to exist. You may be the most indispensable deity out of all of us."

He let out a choked laugh. A dainty little dryad, what a fool he had been. Jehan was perhaps the most powerful being he had ever laid eyes on.

"But I will keep my promise," he continued. "You said you would leave when the fruits were ripe, remember?"

A faint smile grew on Jehan's lips.

"They have ripened? Show me."

The halved fruit was waiting on a pedestal table, its crimson seeds bleeding onto the silver panel. Montparnasse placed it carefully into Jehan's hands. There was a glint of pride shining in their eyes as they held the fruit up close. They shared a knowing glance, both of them revelling in this thing they had created together.

"We think― _I_ think that you can eat it to recover your strength and leave the Underworld," Montparnasse announced tentatively. "It stemmed from you. It should not bind you here."

Jehan's fingertips were reddened by the juice weeping from the shell. The moment they would eat the fruit of their labour, it would be over. It was the last time they would wake up in this bed.

"How much?" Jehan asked, their voice trembling a little.

"I don't know."

Had the choice been his, Montparnasse would have suggested all of it. If it cured them, all of it. Jehan was more measured. They dug out six seeds and considered them gravely. They held the key to the Gates and the seal to the realm. A moment later, the six rubies had disappeared into their mouth.

"How do you feel?"

Jehan did not answer, but a red drop bud onto their lips and floated along the breadth of their mouth. A shy colouring flowered on their cheeks. Even their movements were easier, more fluid. Their free hand reached for Montparnasse and drew him forward.

The flavour of the fruit was still dancing on their mouth. Honey and copper. Life and death, together in one. Neither of them seemed ready to let go. Warmth had rekindled in Jehan's lips, keeping Montparnasse close. It was their sweet excuse, a pretext to stall the inevitable.

"I will get Gavroche," Montparnasse whispered when they came apart.

 

* * *

 

Montparnasse did accompany them to the Gates, this time. They walked hand in hand all the way up to the edge of the Underworld, stealing precious minutes of time together. In their other hand, Jehan was carrying a full fruit from the tree.

"I will plant the seeds all over the world," they had said. "So that the world remembers us in return."

Gavroche was waiting by the Gates, his sandals ready to take flight. At he sight of the large iron doors, their hands held on tighter. Montparnasse could feel Jehan's heartbeat against his palm, throbbing as fast as his own.

"Shall I give Enjolras his lyre back?" he asked.

"No," Jehan smiled. "You still need practice. It's too silent here, anyway."

It would be even more so without their laughter. They held each other, Montparnasse's arms wrapped around Jehan's waist. He had trouble imagining how much he would miss them. How did he use to spend his days before the Flower deity? Forehead against forehead, they looked into each other's eyes, feeling the separation approaching and their time shortening.

"Tell everybody what happened here," Montparnasse said to Gavroche. "Tell the merchants, tell the travellers, tell the thieves. I want the world to know of the Flower deity's might."

"What of your reputation?" the Messenger asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"I won't be on earth to hear about it, will I?" he sighed.

One lingering touch, and their hands slid away from each other. Jehan walked slowly towards Gavroche and the Gates. Standing a few paces away, Montparnasse detailed the outline of their back one last time. Slowly, Jehan took a tentative step. If the fruit had bound them here, they wouldn't be able to go any further. Unconsciously, Montparnasse took a step forward as well. Jehan was standing perfectly between the Underworld and the rest of the universe. They could run home. Instead, they ran into Montparnasse's arms. The fruit rolled on the ground.

"I love you," they whispered in his ear.

"I love you too," he rasped, in a messy attempt to swallow the sobs waiting to burst in his throat.

He had thought of so many things to tell them. How he would never forget. How he would go back to the gardens every day. How the Underworld, in all its immensity, would feel empty without them. But he couldn't risk to speak one more word. Instead, Montparnasse kissed their forehead and picked up the red fruit they had dropped, closing their hands around it.

_Go tell the earth about us._

When they crossed the Gates, their hair shone like a flame in the darkness. The flame flickered. They were gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still one more chapter to go! The epilogue, in fact. I'll publish it on Sunday, because it's not that long, not like the full fledged almost 10ks you've got there :')  
> Can't wait to hear your thoughts about that twist! I've been itching to tell sooo many people, but I had to keep my mouth shut for maximum effect! Feel good to have tha cat finally out of the bag! Please, hit the comment section at your leisure, comments sustain me, they're my absolute lifeline! ♥
> 
> Also you can come and yell at me at [Just-French-Me-Up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/)


	5. Spring

A month passed. A dull month. Montparnasse traded his chamber for Jehan's, lying in their bed for hours at night, never finding sleep. He stayed there until the scent of flowers faded. He still found himself rolling over and expecting their familiar shape under him arm.

The gardens were terribly empty without them. The atmosphere was terribly empty without them. The palace was terribly empty without them. Babet and Gueulemer were missing a player in their midst. Claquesous was missing a music teacher. Montparnasse was missing... He didn't know where to begin.

Thénardier had been chained in Tartarus, once and for all. For his treason, he had been stripped of his title, though nothing could be done regarding his nature. Claquesous had been appointed acting God of Chaos, just as Montparnasse had suggested once. The counsellor was pleased with it. He had always been good at being a shadow.

News from the surface were frequent after the first month. According to Gavroche, Olympus had rarely been this busy. The earth had to be rebuilt up to its core, from the crops to the plundered cities. Spring, they called it. Rebirth.

"The crops are growing nicely," Gavroche said one day, walking in the gardens next to Montparnasse. "People say it will be the best harvest the world has ever known."

"How are they?"

Who care about the harvest? Gavroche needn't ask to know whom Montparnasse was talking about.

"They are well. They miss you."

Both gods cast a fleeting glance towards the yellowing tree that had once been green and healthy. It missed Jehan too, and Montparnasse didn't have the heart to keep it alive, even as a memento. Jehan was not in its leaves or its fruits anymore.

The harvest was indeed the best the world had ever known. Musichetta and Jehan had worked their hardest to ensure mortals had all the sustenance they needed and far more. As a result, the offerings were plentiful on Montparnasse's table. Even flowers were burnt in his name, carrying their fragrances throughout the corridors. He liked that. It was not something he could hold, but it was better than nothing. His skill at the lyre were poor, but he still tried to play as best as he could. Claquesous would sometimes join. They would settle around a table, eating, drinking and playing. Neither would manage to match Jehan's talent and grace, ever.

"They are calling it the Tree of Life," Gavroche announced one day, talking about the new species of trees growing on earth. "Mortals think the fruits will give them eternity. Jehan is very proud of it."

Montparnasse couldn't help but smile at that. A handful of new creations now adorned the earth. Gavroche told him about the new flowers Jehan had crafted, the beautiful blue ones they had designed on a peaceful morning, and the poisonous ones made in a mournful mood. Beauty and death. Growth and decay.

"I'll ask a handful merchants to burn some for you," Gavroche promised.

Months passed. Montparnasse had stopped counting. What use? There would be many months without them now, an eternity of months. He would take care of the souls in Asphodel and Elysium, and punish those who belonged to more lugubrious territories. Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed.

Gavroche was his only link with the surface, telling him stories of what was happening on the surface. Montparnasse heard of yellowing leaves, shorter days. Perhaps Courfeyrac had grown tired of shining so often upon the earth. Gavroche would talk about Jehan. That was Montparnasse's favourite part of his visits.

"How is the tree?" Gavroche asked one day.

Sprawled on Montparnasse's bed, he was busy catching berries with his mouth. The King had warned him not to stain the sheets. Fortunately, Gavroche's aim was impeccable.

"I don't know. Dead, probably."

Montparnasse usually avoided that part of the gardens now. He wanted his memories untainted, to let them live there in peace. Gavroche caught the last berry and flashed a sly smile.

"Perhaps you should go and see for yourself."

There was something strange in his voice. A pretence of innocence. Montparnasse narrowed his eyes. He could not possibly have brought a whole tree with him, could he? Gavroche burst into a hearty laugh, and the echo had not reached him that Montparnasse was already gone.

The trees were bare. The harvest would not be for another handful of months. The usual dead silence reign between the leaves and the trunks. There was nothing but feeble white trees as far as the eye could see. Nothing out of the ordinary. Montparnasse walked on. A drop of red bled between the trunks. He froze. Had the fruits survived this long? How long had it been? A year, perhaps? Maybe a little less? Six months? He got closer. It was not a tree. It was a gown. _I have a gown made out of red rose petals and vines_. Montparnasse's heart gave a violent knock against his chest. He stood there, transfixed.

Standing where the tree had once grown, Jehan was smiling at him, like out of a feverish dream. They were a mirage, a fantasy his longing mind had crafted carefully up to the smallest detail. Even their beauty was too much for him to bear. White flowers had blossomed in their hair and their cheeks had grown rosy with health. Months of yearning and grief pushed into him. Before he could stop himself, Montparnasse rushed to them and abandoned himself to their arms. The silk of their skin felt real. The petals of their lips felt real. Jehan held him close, welcoming the touch, craving it. Fearing they were nothing but a cruel vision, Montparnasse breathed them in, intoxicating himself on the sunlight clothing their being.

"What are you doing here?" Montparnasse panted, his eyes taking in every single one of their features. They looked more beautiful than his mind had managed fathomed during their long absence.

"I belong here. I am bound here."

Their voice sent a shiver down his spine. He was so distracted their words only caught up with him later.

"What? But you can't be! You are needed on earth!"

"Six seeds for six months. Half a year with you. I told you I was hardly the only one growing the tree. Half of it did belong to the Underworld, and now so do I."

Montparnasse did not know how to feel. Six months. It was more than he had ever hoped for. But at the same time, there was a reason why Jehan had left in the first place.

"What about Earth?"

"Earth will be fine. Autumn will give the mortals a fair warning. Plus, it is not their first winter. It is not their _last_ winter."

Something clicked. Not their last winter. There would be other winters, others months spent with them, over and over and over. The earth might be cold, but their winters would be warm.

Montparnasse lifted them off the ground and twirled them in the air. A rain of rose petals fell and laughter filled the gardens. Jehan had sunshine on their lips and stars in their eyes. They were life. They were a microcosm. They were the beginning and he was the end.

They met in the middle. There was balance there, between the unwavering stillness of the Underworld and the ever bursting life of Earth. Something new. Montparnasse could not wait for them to experience it, together as one. _Flower deity breathed a new life into everything they touched_. Jehan clasped his hand, lacing their fingers together. A new life. Montparnasse stroked their knuckles, his touch gentle and revering, a touch meant to adore, not destroy.

"Won't you miss home?" he asked softly.

"I am home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you have it, the whole thing, from beginning to end! Sure, I know it's a bittersweet ending because they will be apart half of the time, but this is how the myth goes. Six months is better than nothing, in the grand scheme of things!  
> I hope you liked that story! It was very close to my heart for a long time, and I'll probably never move on from it, I'm trapped in that world too. As ever, please let me know your thoughts ♥ It would be amazing of you!
> 
> For more Les Misérables shenanigans, see you on [tumblr](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/)! Have an amazing day! ♥


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